Merlot (4 page)

“Oh, did you see the way he looked at me when
we left?”

“Yeah, and I saw the way you gave him that
kiss, too. Look, I’m just suggesting you think this through, okay?
Just don’t get all wound up, fall in love, and then we pick up the
pieces a month down the road because he ends up doing what everyone
warned you about. That’s all I’m saying, okay?”

“Well I don’t think he’d ever do that to me,
he’s too sweet.”

“That’s three glasses of merlot talking,”
Karen said.

* * *

They fled the fairgrounds, reeking of the
swine barn, after getting shut down by a mother and daughter in the
beer garden.

“Roll past that bank again, Lucerne,” Mendel
directed as the three of them crammed into the front seat. He had
to slam the door two or three times to get it to stay closed, the
window rattled dangerously with each attempt.

By the time they had circled the block for a
second pass two more cars had pulled in front and dispatched people
to make what looked like a pretty fat night deposit. They also
spotted a St Paul police car parked on the opposite corner. Two
bored patrolmen in the front seat.

“See, what I tell you, boys? So damn much
money the cops got to sit there at midnight and make sure
everything’s okay. We make a score like this, we got a real name
for ourselves.”

“You fixin’ to kidnap another bank president,
Mendel? ‘Cause in case you forgot that last one we grabbed didn’t
work too damn well.” Elvis said.

* * *

A few hours later Lucerne and Mendel
stretched out on the motel room double bed. Elvis sat on the floor,
beneath a closet shelf, not quite passed out.

“No man, I’m telling you, there’s only one
way,” Mendel said, sounding more rational after the better part of
a case of beer.

“We hit the damn place fast and hard. We plan
a getaway route and a backup. In and out in just a few minutes, do
it when the traffic’s heavy. Most likely be five maybe ten minutes
before the cops ever get there, hell, we’ll be long gone.”

“But how we gonna actually do it? I mean, are
we gonna blow it up, knock out a wall? What?” Elvis asked.

“No,” said Mendel, “we don’t need to blow it
up. How ‘bout we work on planning, take our time, come into the
bank at different times, end up in there together. We don’t need to
blow anything up. We’ll just waltz in, scoop up all that money
waiting for us, walk back to the car and Lucerne here takes us
home. Lucerne?”

Lucerne was stretched out next to Mendel,
surrounded by a half dozen empty beer cans, whispering. His
breathing was heavy and he played absently with the hair on his
chest.

“So, what you wearing then? See through?
Right. What ya see?”

“Lucerne,” Mendel shouted, reached over and
swatted the phone from his brother’s hand. “Damn it, I told ya
before, them gals ain’t worth the time it takes to call. She don’t
know your ass from the next stupid bastard. She just talks to fools
to take your money, dumb ass!”

“Well, then that’s gonna be pretty hard
there, ain’t it, Mendel, ‘cause that phone belongs to that old
heart attacked banker back in Henderson, and I ain’t gonna have to
pay one red cent. And for your information, I’m getting to know
her, building a relationship. I seen Tracey’s picture on TV and
she’s shy and don’t like going out alone and all, it even said
so.”

“That’s just about the stupidest God damn
thing you’ve said all day. I was just at the part where you drive
our getaway, so pay attention, damn it.” Mendel tossed the phone
back onto Lucerne’s chest.

***

It wasn’t the first time Daphne had been
disconnected today. That was just an occupational hazard. But she
had just finished telling the familiar voice she was wearing a
black baby-doll nightie, thinking she’d have him for at least
another ten minutes. The timing seemed unusual.

She adjusted her headset, brushed the sugared
crumbs off the front of her T-shirt, stuffed the better part of
another jelly doughnut into her mouth, and clicked onto the next
line.

“Hey there, this is Tracey,” Daphne said,
taking a hearty second bite before cooing. “Well, what do you think
I’m doing baby? I’ve been waiting for your call, tell me your name
again, honey, I love the way you say it.”

* * *

“This is Merlot.”

“Hi, Tony.”

It was Cindy’s voice and he straightened the
moment he heard it.

“I just wanted to thank you again for the
really nice night. It was fun getting to know you,” she finished
with a sipping sound.

“Yeah? I’m really glad you came over, Cindy,”
meaning it.

After too long a pause she added,

“Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I had a
great time, thanks and be sure to come to my window if you’re ever
in the bank again.”

“Yeah I’ll be sure to do that. Appreciate the
call. Look, I still owe you dinner. I know you’re working tomorrow,
but if you could swing by about 9:00, after our rush here, we could
have some time to really talk. Maybe just the two of us,” he added,
hoping she’d ditch wet blanket Karen.

“Tomorrow? Umm, I think I’ve got something
going, but let me try and cancel it. I’ll see you at, what, 9:00
you said?” she sipped again.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, bye, bye.”

He thought what in the hell did I do that
for? Christ, thinking with the wrong head.

Mmm-mmm, Cindy thought. She sat crossways on
an over stuffed chair and sipped her glass of wine. It wasn’t a
merlot, it was a shiraz, but she closed her eyes and pretended all
the same.

* * *

It had been a very, very long day at the
fair. Sixteen hours in fact, and Otto O’Malley felt like telling
the woman at his stand to drop dead. By the looks of her she was
half way there. He kept that thought to himself, attempted to
smile, the consummate professional. He took her money in exchange
for one of his Deep-Fat-Fried-Bacon-on-a-Stick.

He knew instantly the old bag had never been
the adventurous sort. She didn’t go for the hickory, maple, or his
new introduction, Cajun Bar-B-Que.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he smiled.

His smile always came across as a sneer,
unless the woman happened to be good looking. Then it came across
as a half sneer, half leer, with a slight reptilian flick of the
tongue across his upper lip. This old bat just got the sneer as his
fingers snatched her five-dollar bill.

“Excuse me, but my change?” She stepped back
to read Otto’s sign featuring a neon pink pig in a swimsuit
roasting in a lounge chair. The swimsuit pulled down to show just a
hint of his butt crack, the kids loved that part.

“Oh, change, didn’t I give it to you?” he
stalled, a slim outside chance at this point.

“No, you did not.”

“Oh, sorry about that, it’s been a long day,”
he added, not the least bit sorry.

He had five Deep-Fat-Fried-Bacon-on-a-Stick
stands scattered across the fairgrounds. Each one situated beneath
the neon pink pig in the swimsuit.

He had schemed, scammed, and labored for over
thirty-five years to get a stand at the fair, surviving some
colossal failures along the way. There was the BBQ Cauliflower on a
stick, the Turtle on a Stick, and who would ever forget his poorly
received Cone of Sauerkraut, just to name three. None of them met
with the sort of success he was looking for, but he’d learned from
his mistakes.

All that occurred before he read a book on
simplicity. That got him thinking why the hell not? So he divorced
his wife and came up with Deep-Fat-Fried-Bacon-on-a-Stick The rest
was simple, high calorie, artery-clogging history.

Along with keeping each of his stands
supplied throughout the sixteen-hour day, he made all the bank
runs, carrying a leather briefcase, dressing like any other fool at
the fair, trying desperately to blend into the crowd. Which was
hard to do when you were a fifty-eight-year-old, five foot seven,
fat, red-headed guy with a crew cut carrying a loaded
forty-five.

Making the bank runs for five stands had him
covering about twenty miles a day on foot. He stuffed the cash into
his briefcase and brushed his fingertips across the forty-five
jammed in his belt. Then made his way to the handicap parking area
where he climbed into his pickup and drove three minutes to the
bank.

He wasn’t a fool. Walking twenty plus miles
over the course of any day it made sense to just print up a fake
handicap tag and hang it from his rearview mirror. He bribed the
guard at the handicap lot as a backup plan.

Merlot poured his second cup of coffee as he
looked at used car ads waiting for the meat delivery.

The two delivery guys soon joined him. They
were red faced, dressed in white, juice-stained coats embroidered
with their names on the front. Kevin and Larry. They had just
hauled the meat order into the walk in coolers.

“You guys done?”

“Yeah, double check us,” Larry said and
handed Merlot the delivery slip.

“Looking good as always,” Merlot said a few
minutes later, then signed the packing slip, tore off the top copy,
handed the rest back to Larry.

“Thinking of buying a used car?” Larry asked
looking at the circled ads.

“What? Oh, no, not really.” The term
‘corroborating evidence’ exploded in his head.

“Well then, why’d you circle all the car ads?
You want a used car? Kevin’s got a van for sale. Don’t you Kevin?
What do you want for that thing? Real good runner,” Larry said, not
giving Kevin a chance to answer.

Merlot didn’t care about Kevin’s price. He
just wanted the conversation to end.

“No, one of the waitresses was looking for a
car. I told her I’d check the paper, that’s all,” attempting to
move on.

“You guys catch the Twins last night?”

“God damned Twins. I can’t figure out what
they need more, fielding, hitting or base running,” scoffed
Kevin.

“Tell him about the wife’s van, Kevin. Thing
runs like a top. And the wife’s taken good care of the thing.
Hasn’t she Kevin? Changed the oil regularly, no maintenance beyond
the normal, no accidents, just picking up kids. About sixty
thousand miles, got it in 2004 although it’s a 2005 model.”

“She’s thinking about something a little more
sporty,” Merlot said.

“Well, you had a van circled here, and this
one’s a van. She got kids, this waitress?”

“I don’t really know, but you’re right about
those Twins, they need help in all departments.”

“Know what you should do Kevin? Drive the
wife up here for a steak tonight, show Merlot and that waitress the
van. She’ll buy it soon as she sees the damn thing. What price you
got on it, Kevin, that van?”

“Sold last night,” Kevin said, finally able
to get a word in.

“Sold? What? Jeez, Merlot, it would have been
perfect. She just drove it with the kids. You know picking them up,
dropping them off, just family stuff.”

“Look guys, thanks, I’ll see you Monday
morning, have a great weekend but I got a busy night and I had
better start getting ready for it, gotta fly,” he said, backing
toward the swinging kitchen door, making an exit before he had to
hear about Kevin’s van again.

“Hey, Merlot, you forgot your want ads. Jeez,
you sold it, hunh? Why didn’t you tell me?”

* * *

Cindy hit her snooze alarm at least three
times before she bolted upright in bed. She ran to the kitchen and
gobbled three aspirins. The sight of the wine bottle made her head
throb, and the need to be at work by 7:00 did absolutely nothing to
help.

On any given Saturday morning there might be
two or three nigh deposits, but during fair week there were upwards
of thirty, totaling anywhere from fifty to two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars. They had to be counted, recorded, bound and ready
for the first courier run at 9:40. She was half toying with the
idea of phoning in sick as she stepped in the shower, but knew she
wouldn’t make the call. She’d never taken a sick day in four
years.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, letting the water
run down her shoulders. Had she set a dinner date for tonight?

Great first impression, she thought, and
scrubbed furiously. She toweled dry as she half ran to her bedroom
to get dressed. Let’s see, the guy invites me to his restaurant for
a glass of wine. I repay him by calling back drunk, unable to
remember if we set a dinner date.

***

Great! Merlot thought returning to the
kitchen once he watched the meat truck drive away. Why not just ask
the guy to come along when I buy the damn car? So much for keeping
everything below the radar. At least at this hour he could swing
past the bank, get another look and feel for the place, drive down
a few side streets and maybe begin a plan.

There was a little more traffic on the
streets than he expected, but nothing like the day before, and he
had plenty of time to leisurely cruise the side streets. He was
making his second run past the bank when he caught sight of Cindy
dashing across the sidewalk and slipping into the bank.

Damn it, he thought, reminding himself of
their dinner date. What in the hell was he thinking?

It had been his experience that when things
started to get shitty he usually did one of two things; either he
found a way to step in it or he just plain fell down and rolled in
it. This seemed to be no exception. He had arranged a dinner date
with a teller from the bank he planned to rob.

But what better way, he reasoned, to garner
inside information. He could loosen up pretty bank teller Cindy
with an evening of drinks and dinner.

* * *

“What do you mean they won’t dance?” Osborne
bellowed into the phone. “You tell them to get their collective
buns up on stage.”

It had always been the policy of the Beaver
Hut, the dance portion of Osborne’s empire, that the stage
temperature be kept somewhere just below arctic. He had set up cold
air returns to blow continually across the stage, all day, every
day, much to the consternation of his dancers. Despite the
potential for enhanced tip revenue, they complained.