Lemons 03 Stroke of Genius (4 page)

“Ha! No. I even checked to make sure.”

5.

After Vince left, we decided to call it a day. I was gathering my stuff when Elise dropped her bombshell on me. Apparently, she had a date tonight. Some doucher that Jamie set her up with (remind me to punch Jamie) who was recently divorced. I’ve never been good with my emotions, but I was pretty sure the one I was feeling now was not a pleasant one. It felt like someone was standing on my chest. I couldn’t find my breath. I stood silently for what felt like minutes.

“You can’t go on a date.” I told her.

“And why can’t I?”

“Because. Um. You didn’t tell me about it.”

“I just did tell you about it. I just found out about it last night after dinner. It’s just a casual thing.”

“Yeah, well I don’t like him.”

“Well, you don’t like anyone, so that doesn’t really bother me that much.”

“Well, what about the kids? You can’t just up and leave them?”

“How am I leaving them? They’re with Jamie, just like always. Don’t worry, Archie. We’re just going to dinner.”

“Well, I don’t approve of this at all. I’ll go get the kids, we can hang out at your house. They spend too much time with Jamie anyway, and if we have to go to Vegas, I need to spend time with them.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s the only reason. Fine, I give up. I have to go and get ready.”

“I don’t-‘

“Quit being such a baby. It’s a date. My first in a long, long time. Now knock it off. Ya know what would do you some good?”

“You not going on a date?”

“Nooo, why don’t you try going on a few dates?”

“Um, because I’m married.”

“Babe, you’re not married. It’s coming up on two years since Marianne died. I know you had a rough time with it, hell, so did I? But it’s almost Christmas time again.”

“Yeah, well Christmas sucks.”

“LAST Christmas sucked, Archie. I know it was hard on you, but you have to move on.”

“I don’t have to do anything. Just go on your date.”

The truth was, last Christmas was the worst day of my life. It was my first without my wife and the entire week leading up to it I spent huddled in the corner of my bedroom sobbing like a child. In fact, the couple of months after Christmas, I was a complete wreck. I was completely disheveled, rude, obnoxious, and rather stinky. Elise saved me, as usual, and pulled me from the brink of self-destruction. And now she was going on a date.

Dislike.

***

I met Elise at her house about an hour later after running home and grabbing Wrecker and giving her enough time to pick up the kids. While Elise was out on her date, the kids and I ordered pizza and watched an old, uber-cheesy Sci-Fi movie on Netflix called Robot Monster.

Although I wasn’t supposed to, I let the kids stay up way past their bedtime until their mom returned from her…date.

Yeah, maybe I had my own selfish reasoning behind it, but whatever. Shut up.

When she finally arrived home, she was happy to see the kids awake, but irritated with me at the same time for letting them stay up.

Women.

“So,” I said, “how was it?”

“It was nice,” she answered. “He’s a really sweet guy.”

“Yeah, wow, great, super. I’m outta here.” I walked over to the kids and gave them each a fist bump and told them I loved them. I told Elise I would see her tomorrow at the office after I was done with the bank. She said fine, (with a little attitude, I must say) and I made my way out the door, down the driveway and to my car, Wrecker by my side.

When I returned home, after opening the front door, I threw my keys across the room. The start of a frustration-induced temper tantrum. Of course, the keys hit a picture frame, sending it crashing to the ground.

I yelled the dreaded F word and several variations of it then moped my fat ass over to the sofa, taking a seat.

I couldn’t ignore the mess, though. I stood up and cleaned all the glass fragments from the carpet, then took everything to the trashcan outside. The whole time I was cleaning I kept repeating “He’s a really sweet guy” in a wonderful, wide array of varying mocking tones.

My emotions began to confuse me again when I retook my seat. I cried myself to sleep.

6.

I found myself in a dark basement. The sour, dank smell was giving me a headache. I looked around the room for an exit but couldn’t find one. I walked around the perimeter looking for any escape, to which there was none. My claustrophobia was beginning to kick in and I felt sweat droplets forming above my eyebrows. My breathing got heavy, my mouth got dry. I couldn’t swallow and the air filling my lungs was getting hard to obtain. The lights cut out leaving me trapped in total darkness. I heard gunshots as mussel flashes momentarily illuminated the room. I hear my wife’s voice from somewhere outside.

“It’s time,” she tells me. “Archie, it’s time.”

The room grew quiet again.

I began to panic. I was turning around looking for any way out. I needed to find her. A buzzing sound filled the room. White noise in a black area.

A light comes on in the distance. I walk towards it. A refrigerator. The door is open and I look inside. A woman emerges from inside and stabs me in the throat with something hot and sharp. My blood splatters across her face as she laughs and I fall back into reality.

I got out of bed and dressed first thing the following morning and headed straight to the bank. It didn’t go too well for me. They had one person working the member services department and the line was six people deep. I checked the clock. The bank had been open nine minutes. Ugh!

After thirty minutes I came to the conclusion that pretty much every business in the world is tuned in to the same exact radio station. They have to be. I don’t understand why anyone would listen to this crap, though. I swear to God, I have only heard these songs in like, grocery stores and whatnot. I couldn’t imagine anyone buying any of these songs for their personal enjoyment.

I shook my head and decided to go back to my people watching. Nothing too exciting here. Just a bunch of impatient assholes standing in a row. I take my phone out and begin to play some games. When my battery hit thirty-percent, it was my turn at the window. The man helping me looked to be about eighteen. I didn’t have a good feeling.

I was right, as usual. Another forty-five minutes later, I’m leaving the bank, still with my fortune of ninety-six cents intact. I had to fill out paperwork and even write a short essay about what happened. Apparently, telling them my money was stolen, please do something about it, just isn’t good enough anymore. I had a homework assignment.

Stupid bank.

Then, after that, I was told I would get a provisional credit of my money back…in ten to twelve business days! What? What the hell is so difficult about my predicament that it will take two weeks to get a PROVISIONAL credit?!

Stupid, stupid bank!

And to make matters worse, I can’t even get a new Visa Check Card for another ninety days, until the investigation is over. They gave me a temporary ATM Card. Do you know how worthless this goddamn thing is? Ugh! And my real credit card is still cancelled with a new one on the way, so as of now, I have no money and no access to money. Unless you count my business savings account, which I may just have to dip in to.

I kicked the tire of my car, then for some reason, apologized to it. I was becoming soft in my old age, apparently.

I got in and started the engine. It was time to head to work and face the awkwardness of being with Elise. I wasn’t proud of the way I acted last night. I honestly don’t know what came over me. Sometimes I hate the way my brain functions. Most of the time I proud of it, but I tell ya, sometimes it is infuriating.

Stupid brain!

Stupid autism!

Stupid emotions!

Stupid fears!

I hate you all, today!

***

“So how’d it go at the bank?” Elise asks me as I enter the office.

“Yeah, no real satisfaction. Just as I thought. I don’t really want to talk about it. I guess we have work to do, right?”

“I guess so.”

I walked into my office and closed the door. Why am I acting like such a baby? I hate this. It was one date. Right? Big deal.

I sat down at my computer and did a quick background check on our new client and the victim. The first rule of private investigating is; Never talk about private investigating. Ha, nah, just kidding. First rule is always suspect the client. Something I should have remembered two years ago, could have saved me a few gunshot wounds and a whole lot of pain, but no, stupid Archie Lemons forgets everything when some good looking dame walks in to his office.

I run my hand over one of my old wounds. I can still feel the bullet tearing through my flesh. Silly, I know, considering it’s completely healed. But the pain is more than the simple psychicality of it. It always floods my body with mental anguish. The pain of my dead wife and daughter. The agony of being forced to take the life of someone.

Just like the scars, it will never go away. Everyone I allow myself to love eventually just goes away.

Maybe if I were better with people my problems would lessen. But, I’m just not. My people skills are lacking. I don’t get along with very many folks and I like even less. It amazes me how much I love Elise and my nephews. But,-

A knock on the door and Elise peaks her head in.

“Anyway, are we going to get to work on this thing or what?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I respond. “Just finishing up background checks on the both of them. They’re both clean; both are who they said they are. No arrests or anything. Just a couple of smart nerds who write amazingly awful movies.”

“Yeah, I bet you and Vince end up being BFF when this thing is over with.”

“Maybe. Maybe.”

“What’s with the button-up shirt today? Did you run out of terrible band shirts?”

“Funny. No. I’ll never run out of those. I just wanted to look presentable at the bank.”

“When was the last time you wore than thing? It looks a little…snug.”

“Yeah, I get it. I’m fat.”

“Those poor buttons look like they’re hanging on for dear life. If one of those things pop it could take out an eye.”

“Thanks.”

“God, I’m only kidding around. What’s up your butt today?”

“Nothing. What’s up yours?”

“Wow, okay. Let me know when you grow up a bit. I’ll be at my desk.”

And with that, she walked back out the door, closing it a little more hard than what was required.

Stupid Elise.

7.

A few hours and a couple of phone calls later, I was in possession of the official police report on Balthazar August’s death in Las Vegas. I printed out everything, including the sad pictures of a corpse holding his little wiener. Normally I would laugh at the mere mention of this, but not even photographic proof could make me crack a smile. The last picture this poor bastard had of himself was with his pants down, tongue hanging out, belt around his neck and his pathetic stub of a penis in full sight of everyone. The picture was all the more humiliating because, I knew, once the blood stopped pumping, it all drained out of his penis, leaving something that even a child would laugh at.

I looked through the rest of the photos. Nothing too interesting. Different angles of the body, various personal effects on his bed and in his suitcase, and everything he had on his person set out on the table near him, which included two five dollar Myra Casino chips and a wallet with his driver’s license, two credit cards, a debit card and eighty five dollars in cash. In his pocket was three quarters and three pennies. On the table at the entrance of the room was a pack of gum, a box of delicious Junior Mints and a napkin left over from the room service they ordered the night before. Like I said, nothing very exciting.

Elise returned with her lunch. I had decided to skip it today. Apparently, I’m too fat to love.

She sat down across from me and asked what I’ve got so far. I tossed the stack of papers in her direction. She choked on her sandwich when she saw the top photograph.

“Oh man, I’ll bet you’ve been having a field day with this one, huh?”

“No,” I answer. “Not really.”

She dropped her sandwich down on the desk. “Okay, asshole. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong with me.”

“Bullshit! I’m not stupid. Am I not allowed to date? Is that part of my job description?”

“You can do whatever you want.”

“You’re right. I can. And you can either talk to me about it or you can go whine about it while you’re huddled in the corner like a baby,” she snapped.

“Fine. Just forget it. Let’s just get to work.”

“No, I’m not going to forget it. Why don’t you try going out once in a while? It doesn’t have to be with a girl. I know you have friends out there. Max calls you all the time to see if you want to play golf and you shoot him down every time. Why?”

“Because I don’t want to play stupid golf. It’s boring and it’s frustrating. I don’t want to be out on a giant lawn, chasing a stupid little ball around and trying to hit it in a hole a million miles away. It’s the sporting equivalent to kicking a can down the sidewalk as you walk. It’s stupid. I have better things to do than be out there with a bunch of stupid, stuck up, snobby white people.”

“So, it’s your fear of white people that keeps you off the golf course? Really?”

“And everything else, but yeah. White people. Ugh.”

“You’re white!”

“Yeah…?”

“Oh my god! Well, Tiger Woods plays golf and he’s not white.”

“Please, the only thing black about Tiger Woods is the white women. We’re off track anyway!”

“I know what you’re thinking, Archie. You think I’m going to leave you. Like I’m going to meet someone and off I go. I am not going to leave you. Nothing will be different at all. You’ll still always have me and the boys. Me going out to dinner with someone other than you will not change anything in even the slightest of ways. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Fine.”

“And?”

“And what?” I ask.

“You’re sorrrrrrr-‘

“I’m sorry. Shit.”

“Thank you.” She picked up her sandwich and took a bite. With a full mouth she said, “Now let’s find out what happened to this needle-dicked bastard.”