Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set (51 page)

“What of 'em?”

“The fifty's for you. A fringe benefit of knowing things. And it's got a twin here in my pocket.”

“Knowin' is cheap, but sayin' ain't.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a greasy smile slip across his face.

“Double or nothing, then. The double's for forgetting you ever saw me.”

“Saw who?”

He laid another three fifties down on the bar. I eyed the joint in the mirror to make sure no one was watching. Then I swept the money away with my towel and had it in my pocket, where it would stay until I caught up with Leanna tonight.

“Lives three blocks down. Number 216 East.”

He stood up, making an awfully big shadow on the scum-stained bar. Then the shadow, and the man in the yellow slicker, were gone. I felt sorry for that weeny little guy. Any minute now, he was gonna hear a knocking on his door—

The words danced in golden orange on the black screen of the word processor. Bad writing. A little too much Spillane and Chandler . The story had gotten away. Time to dive in, chop out its heart. Where to begin? Better finish reading it first.

A pounding on the door interrupted my thoughts.

—knocking on his door, then he's going to hear a yell, a crazy voice of phlegm and
bitterness—

The crazy voice that was outside the apartment door, yelling “Hey, scumbag, open up or I'll bust the door down”; yelling “I'll make you pay for all the misery you caused”; yelling “Nobody's going to mess around with my wife, especially some snot-nosed fancy boy like you.”

—kicking at the door with those big heavy boots, reaching inside that canary yellow slicker, grabbing a fistful of cold gat—

And the boots were on my door, making the hinges groan under the splintery strain.

—busting through and standing over the poor little loser, who's lookin' up at his killer, beggin' , pleadin', offerin' up money he ain't got and prayin' to a God he don't believe in—

And the man in the yellow slicker is standing at the study door, holding a gun, his reddish-gold eyes blazing with insane hatred. I can see his finger tightening on the trigger. It's like a Stephen King story gone south, without the plot twists. Writer's character becomes real and comes to get him. It's been done too many times. Too trite even for me.

But the smell of metal and tension is too real, and the door is hanging like a wino from a boxcar.

—and he's sittin' at his little writing desk with his wimpy finger over the “delete” button, all he's got to do is press it and the man will go away. But he can't bring himself to do it. His work is too precious, too IMPORTANT to wipe out
.

I take two hot slugs to the head, feel my brains begin their awkward eternal journey to the study wall. In its last moment of awareness, the ruined cerebellum searches frantically for a tidy ending, some way to bring the plot to completion, only it's much too far gone, much too hopeless, and the curtain of darkness...no, the veil of shadows...no, the wall of nothingness descends...

When Sil came home from work, he found Karen sitting in the study, staring at the word processor. The screen was full, and her face was orange in its glow. “What are you doing in here?” he asked.

“Oh, just messing around.”

“Working on something?”

“I figured since everybody else was playing 'writer,' I might as well try my hand at it. Put myself in your shoes, to coin another cliché. Walk a mile in your gloves. But it's a lot harder than I thought. I believe I'd better take Faulkner's advice and kill my darlings.”

She was reaching out to press the “delete” button when Sil caught her wrist. “Don't I get to read it first?”

“Well, if you really want to. But promise not to make fun of me.”

“After some of the garbage I've written?”

Karen got up and let Sil take the chair. She said, “At least one good thing came out of this. Now I understand how you get so caught up in this stuff. You writers are nuts.”

“That's
we
writers, dear.” Sil laughed. He loved her. He began reading.

I was wiping down the bar with an old shirt rag when he came in. The man in the yellow slicker. I saw him without looking up...

THE END

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“Have them live here?  No way,” Richard said shaking his head.

The request wasn’t exactly a revelation.  The writing had been on the wall for at least a year.  The intervals between tear-sodden appeals for cash had become shorter and shorter, and the sums had gotten larger and larger.  At first, it was the odd fifty or sixty bucks now and then.  But recently, it was a regular three hundred every month.  Michelle’s parents promised to pay it back and Michelle covered for them.  But he wasn’t a fool.  Ted and Eleanor weren’t generating the kind of income to pay back their loans.  They lived in a financial minefield of their own creation and this time they’d stepped on all the mines at once--taking out more than just themselves.

It was so unfair.  After five years of marriage, he and Michelle had just gotten themselves straight.  The mortgage payments were manageable at last.  The credit cards and student loans were paid off.  The new Honda had been bought with cash.  They’d limped along for years with the old Corolla while they’d saved because they didn’t want another loan on their credit report.  All this had been achieved through careful money management and sacrifice.  He was so proud.  They’d come so far.  They were just starting to live the life they’d promised themselves when they got engaged.

That was what made his in-laws’ screw-ups so much more galling.  Twice Richard’s age, Ted and Eleanor treated money with the mentality of teenagers.  Only a couple of years from retirement, they had nothing to show for their lives.  Their crummy, two-bedroom hovel was rented.  The car was leased.  Pensions and life insurance had been cashed in years ago.  Retirement wasn’t an option for either of them.  They would have to work until they died.

Damn the American dream
, Richard thought.  That was the cause of Ted and Eleanor’s monetary nightmares.  They had to show everyone they were keeping up with the Joneses.  They’d spent a lifetime trying to project the superficial image that they were at top of their game, except their lifestyle was built on credit.

He was thankful Ted and Eleanor hadn’t passed on their trait to Michelle, although there had been problems when they’d gotten married.  She’d run up a string of college loans because her parents were unable to support her.  Only that January had he and Michelle cleared the last of her college debts.  But the nail in her credit report’s coffin was the credit card she’d underwritten for her parents when no self-respecting bank would issue them one.  They’d maxed it out in months, with the promise they would pay it off.  They never had.

“They are going to be evicted in two weeks.  Do you want them to live on the streets?” Michelle demanded, close to tears.

“They’re adults.  It’s not my problem, is it?”

“Richard!”

He snorted, getting up from the kitchen table.  It wasn’t like she disagreed with him.  She hated what her parents had put her through.  But none of that counted when parental guilt was in full effect.  He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

“You really want them to live here?”

“We don’t have a choice.  Why don’t you want them here?”

“Because this is our home--yours and mine--and no one else’s.  They may be your parents but they’re still strangers to me.  I would never feel comfortable with them here.  I would feel like I would have to be on my best behavior.  I would never be myself.”  He sighed.  “You realize that our sex life would be over.”

Michelle frowned.  “Oh, Richard.”

“It would be, you know.  I couldn’t make love with them in the next room.”

“Is that all you’re worried about?”

“No, it isn’t.  It’s just one thing.  I don’t want to be paying for a home that your parents will be getting more out of than I will.”

“Don’t you mean
we
?  The house
we’re
paying for…  My parents getting more out of it than
we
will…”

Richard snorted again.  “See?  They’re not even here and they’re making our life a misery.”

“So, what do you suggest?”

“Tell your dad to get off his butt and get a job.”  Richard couldn’t believe how old that comment made him sound.

“He’s got a job.”

“Oh yeah, it’s a doozie.”

Michelle’s dad hadn’t worked for years since he was “laid off.”  He’d actually been canned for some stunt that never made the light of day.  Ever since, he’d sunk thousands into late night TV get-rich schemes that had only gone to make someone else rich.  Richard shuddered to think what the latest flash in the pan was.

“I bet you’d be singing a different tune if this was your parents.  They don’t have jobs.”

“Don’t go there.”

“Why not?”

He sighed.  “It’s not an issue, is it?  My parents are retired now.  They have good pensions.  Money isn’t a problem for them.”

“What if their pensions dried up?”

“They wouldn’t.”  Richard paused.  “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“Okay, you’ve made it very clear that you don’t want them living with us.”  Razor-edge bitterness barbed Michelle’s words.  “We have other options.”

“Like what?”

“We can pay their rent?”

“What?”  Richard was incredulous.  “And pay their back rent, I suppose?”

“Obviously.”

“Well, you can think again.”

“Okay, we buy a second home.”