A Vagrant Story (37 page)

“Surely you didn’t?”

“I would have. I’d have tossed it back right then and there, when something caught my eye. The business section of the local paper had been left open on the betting shelf. Nobody came to serve me so I took the paper and sat down to wait.”

“I’m to imagine this was an unusual action for you to take.”

“There were all kinds of deals going on. Suffice to say, I realised the market in this city had fallen to something of a state. Local businesses were literally begging for investors and unfinished housing estates needed funding. And there was me with all that money.”

“You decided to help fix the city?”

“In a way,” Rum laughed. “It occurred to me then that if I gambled the money here and now I’d be risking it for what had become buttons to me. Sure, if I won the bet, money would be great. But it wouldn’t be the same as that first win. That day I had come to the track for another satisfying rush. I wasn’t going home without one. Funny, the things that went through my head at that time. By the end of the day I hired a guy and set about my investments.”

“It does sound a bit more honest than gambling. I’m sure your wife appreciated it.”

“My wife saw it as nothing but another crock. Sure I’d quit gambling but all she saw was a new way for me to catch another risk based high.”

“It wasn’t?”

“It was. Of course it was. Whether gambling or investing, my mind was always centred on the rush. Difference was, only one of them could cure that little click that had been biting into me since that guy punched me. I began investing just to feel it again. No. More like I threw money into it. And that’s probably why my wife left me. Hell, I know that’s the reason. When I decided to invest all that money she went through the same motions as that night back at the track. She screamed. She panicked. Except this time when the good news came in she’d already packed her bags. Didn’t matter that I made profit, she took off with the kid without little much else to say to me.”

“So you regret choosing power and money over your family. Time isn’t so forgiving but God will forgive so long as you are truly sorry.”

“It’s fine. I didn’t give a crap about them.”

“So … that isn’t why you came here?”

“No. It never really fazed me.”

“Didn’t you love them?”

“Things had always been shaky with that wife of mine. My little summary didn’t show much of it, but she was a gold digging bitch, truth be told. She only ever worried when she stood a chance of losing big.”

“But if she only wanted you for money then why would she leave you in the end?”

“Because I’m a loose cannon. I was a gambling addict, no denying it. She couldn’t handle the stress that I might eventually take a gamble and turn up short. She was happy with my money. Of course she was also happier with more money but never at the risk of losing everything she had. She decided to throw in the towel and take everything she could before I wound up pissing it down the tube. She took half my money and fled into the sunset with some Spanish banker or something. That was the worst of it all.”

“Losing the money was really worse than losing your child?”

“Hey now, I didn’t say the kid was mine. The woman already had that kid before I even met her. He was a spoiled little brat too, I hardly knew him. He was worse than his mother.”

“Surely she loved you, and at some point, you her?”

“Reverse it, father. I loved her to bits when we first married - I was a fool to trust her. Sure I loved her, but at some point I had to grow out of being a fool. Frankly, it felt good to be rid of her. The separation opened doorways. I could do what I wanted without that greedy little nagging voice over my shoulder.”

“So you tossed your wife and decided to invest in land instead. I have to wonder what business a man like the one you speak has coming to my church.”

“She tossed me. I couldn’t do much else so investing’s what I did. Of course, time came when it bored me too. I decided to stop investing in other people’s companies and set about starting my own. That is to say I threw other people out of there’s. They were going under any way so I thought of it as a favour.”

“You really did, did you?”

“Not very reassuring of you there, father.”

“I’m a priest not a shrink.”

“I couldn’t think the way I used to. I became proud. I became arrogant. Remember that little click at the back of my mind I mentioned? Well it burrowed right into my skull and stayed with me 24/7 – the constant high. The only method of matching a buyout was planning the buyout. I had these schemes, see. I used to take the best employees from my rivals. That way their quality of service tended to decline. Add a few paid rumours and bribed technicians and it’d be enough for them to sell out at the first offer. It was like a giant board game and I was the only one who realised the game started.”

“It did used to be a relatively sleepy city, at least, as I remember it from my childhood.”

“And that’s who I am - the character of our story. I know it’s not the best character introduction but I hope it gives you some insight … or knowledge into the kind of guy I was. I need you to know these things so it’s easier for you to hear me out, and hopefully forgive me.”

“So … have you thought of your first line?”

“I’ll start with: it happened in a launderette ten years ago…”

Through the dividing screen the priest’s silhouette shuffled up with renewed interest. He remained in such a position listening more keenly than he thought he might.

***

Back then the man, who would later be known as Rum, had a fancy for suits. He’d buy one from each store, some in doubles if he liked the designs. He preferred suits. It’s all he started wearing since regular clothing became something of a drag to him, tattered rags like he wore in the past. He’d become a success and with it he needed to dress the part, which he did with proud avengeance.

It was something of a hindrance, however, that with all his suits which held him in this lifestyle there were few launderettes in this whole city catering for them. Most considered it a risk to clean such expensive fabrice. He had just the one laundrette nearby. It was a nice little place at a nice little intersection which he seemed to always pass wherever his office of the day turned up. It was a prime location for a prime market. Naturally, even as the man relished their honourable service he’d being eying up the land since day one.

So he continued to use their services, returning weekly for pick ups and drop offs. Time would come though, as it so often does for the snake in the grass, when he relinquished his devotion for their services. So he went from saying please and thank you, to angered screams and claims of disappointment.

Rum couldn’t remember if there was something valid in his complaints or if he fabricated the whole dispute. With his mindset back then he’d do both and think the latter.

He’d started complaining about damaged suits mostly, which, when seen by enough people couldn’t be good for public relations.

On this one occasion when he complained, which was his fourth occasion, the store was empty save one clerk and a female ginger haired customer holding onto her newborn who cried persistently in her arms. Her older son, of perhaps ten years with a head of equally ginger hair, ran around the store playing imaginary aeroplanes. It was clear by the woman’s expression that she harboured no sympathy for that man in front of her and his inconsequential nit-picking.

Rum could remember standing on the customer side of the counter, both staring and screaming down the weedy little clerk opposite with little regard for the red haired woman’s tried patience.

Rum had an eye for people back then - at least he thought he did. There was a look about this be-speckled clerk. The way he wore that tight buttoned up shirt with those ghastly circular spectacles, the way he shied under his unkempt gelled down hair. Any sod could tell this fool wasn’t going to stick up for himself. The way he spoke confirmed it.

“Now … hold on a second … you. I-I don’t want any trouble here. I keep telling you your suit is exactly as you left it.”

Rum waved the bagged suit in anger. “The hell it is! Look at this thing! All these crinkles weren’t in it before. What about this rip here? What about the dirt? You have any idea how much this cost me.”

“B–but we didn’t do anything. You won’t even show it to me.”

Rum swung the suit straight to the clerk’s face then pulled it back as fast. “There, see the damage?”

“I couldn’t see.”

“Like I need your opinion.”

With child in arms the red haired woman approached the clerk aggressively. “Look, I’m in a hurry here. Can I just get my clothes and go? I need it for a party in two hours.” She snapped back to her eldest who whizzed about making rattata sounds for an epic plane battle. “Sit down!”

Rum turned to her. “That’s right, shut your eyes and let them rip you off. How many times have they tried this on you? Bet you always let them away with it. Of course that’s what you did. You’ve no other choice. There‘s not another cleaners for miles.”

She looked straight over the man to the clerk. “Please, I need to go now. My friend will be here any minuet to pick me up.”

From a backroom behind the counter a rather plump woman wearing a grey dress suit walked out to address the situation. Before speaking she finished tying her long black hair into a ball.

From previous encounters Rum recognised her immediately as the store manager.

“Is there a problem here, Leon?” the manager asked the clerk.

“It’s this man again,” the clerk replied.

“So I see. Has another suit been damaged on you? This is the third time isn’t it?”

“Fourth.”

“Leon, help the lady. I’ll deal with this gentleman … again.”

“Help me by offering a refund.”

“For the suit in your hands? May I see it?”

“No.”

“I can’t help if you won’t let me look at it, sir.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Leon could be heard mumbling as he attended to the red haired lady.

“Shut up you bag of sticks!” Rum snapped him down.

A heated exchange of opinion followed between the manager, the clerk and the man in his expensive black suit. The red haired woman merely combed fingers through her hair in frustration.

Overshadowed by all the noise, the entrance bell over the door chimed with little attention for it. As they argued, a man wearing a dark blue hoodie entered and stood, for all they noticed at the time, passively in third place behind the red haired woman.

Even as the three continued yelling it was oddly noticeable how the eldest son’s whirling and rattata noises ceased suddenly. No one but the mother herself noticed the boy when he spoke up.

“Mommy,” he said.

“Not now,” she replied, fingers massaging forehead to lessen the ruckus.

The child ran to her side, tugging on her hand. “Mommy,” he said again, pointing at the hooded stranger.  

The mother carried a lazy eye down to her son, only to carry the same eye back up to the hooded gentlemen.

The hooded man only allowed them to see the lower section of his face, which presented itself with certain calmness. Or as calm as a man could appear when holding a gun at three people too busy raging at each other to notice. There was a toothy grin too.

That grin cut it most. That’s what sent the mother, with her children in arms, hurdling back safely into the black suited man, who turned in surprise. The clerk named Leon and the manager too turned in surprise.

For all the hooded man’s patience they’d finally acknowledged him. He held a gun which none of them could identify but it was small like a pistol and appeared capable of firing in rapid procession.

“Money!” the hooded man yelled. “Now!”

The manager curdled up like a scared hamster, shaking head as if unable to understand. By all appearance the clerk could do no better. He didn’t seem consciously aware when he opened the till and handed a bag full of cash over the counter.

“You too! Give me your purse, your jewellery – come on, come on!” the hooded man yelled at the red haired woman. 

She obeyed, shielding the kids behind her.

Then the gun turned to that black suited man.

“You look well loaded. Show me your wallet.” His eyes rolled over the man’s clothing. “That’s some suit - looks expensive. Strip it.”

The man stared quietly. Over shoulder he could hear the clerk’s voice begging for obedience.

Rum shook his head against the suggestion.

By some nervous response the gun man wiped his nose. At least that’s how Rum perceived it. It looked like panic rising in the gunman’s eyes too. Back then Rum thought himself good at reading people. And what he read told him this robber was bluffing. If he could hold out a while longer this punk would run away.

So Rum grinned. “No. I’m not scared of you. You think that gun makes you look tough – I bet it’s not even loaded.”

“Just give me your stuff man!”

“I like my suit. It’s my favourite.”

“Listen – man!”
“No you listen. You’re just another sorry little punk brat out for some easy cash. I see that face under there, you don’t look twenty. I bet I could snap that gun out of your hand before you pull the trigger. What you gonna do? The cops are coming.”