Three Twisted Stories (8 page)

Charlie didn’t let this stop him. He fucked himself. First fast, then slow, then fast again, then slow. He pulled it out until the tip almost showed. He pushed it in until he felt the balls strain. Back and forth, fast and slow. He turned it different ways. He went upside down. More fast, more slow, until finally, he gave up.

Charlie stared at the dick in his hand.

Honestly, he didn’t see what all the fuss was about.

A
PRIL
8, 1974

The Braves hat was back on the chicken when Charlie walked onto the dealership floor. He wanted to let it go, but it grated like nothing else in his life. Charlie was running a business, not a nursery.

He raised his voice. “Who put this fucking hat back on the chicken?”

Everybody looked at him like he was insane.

Charlie screamed, “I asked who put this fucking hat on the chicken!”

“Hey, hey, brother.” Deacon put his hand on Charlie’s arm. “Let’s chill out, now. All right?”

Charlie threw off his brother’s hand. “Don’t tell me to chill out, you jackass.”

Deacon rubbed his hand like Charlie had slapped it. “I know you don’t care about sports, but it’s a big thing for a lot of guys. Hank versus the Babe. History in the making.” He winked at Charlie. “If they don’t shoot him first.”

“What if a customer walks through that door, sees that hat, then walks back out?” He snatched the hat off the chicken and threw it at Deacon.

Deacon missed the toss. “Jesus, Chuckles. No need to get hysterical.”

“I am not hysterical,” Charlie said, hearing the hysteria in his own voice. He tried to sound calm, but all he could manage was to hiss the words through his teeth. “I said don’t put the hat on the chicken.”

He turned on his heel and walked toward his office. He felt the heat of Deacon’s gaze on his back. Let him stare. Charlie didn’t give a shit. He was so tired of getting pushback on everything he said. Charlie made thousands of decisions every day. He didn’t have time to explain the reasons behind them. And he shouldn’t have to. This was
his
dealership. This was
his
company.

Charlie felt tears in his eyes. He was so angry that he felt his throat closing. He wanted to go back and scream at Deacon, but he knew how his brother worked. Somehow, he would manage to make it look like Charlie was the crazy one.

“Fuck it,” Charlie said. He pushed open the door to his office. He put his briefcase on the
floor when what he really wanted to do was throw it through the window.

He stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips.

What fresh hell awaited him today? Going by Finkelmeyer, the whole fucking building would burn down.
Let it burn
, Charlie thought. And then he chastised himself for going to such a dark place. Deacon wasn’t his only employee. The guys in the back respected him. The porters never questioned Charlie’s decisions. They did what he said and were happy to take their paychecks.

“Am I interrupting?” Darla stood in his office doorway. “Just checking if you want some coffee. I just put on a fresh pot.”

“Sure.” Charlie started toward the door.

“I’ll get it.” Darla gave him a curious look. “You want a doughnut, too?”

“No thanks. I’m trying to watch my weight.” Charlie wiped his eyes as he walked over to his chair. He hoped Darla wasn’t going to tell the other secretaries that he’d been crying.

Charlie sat down at his desk. He looked around his office. Why had he ever thought this shithole made him look successful? All the furniture was chrome and leather, looking every bit of the discount Charlie got from the guy who sold it to him. The paneling on the walls was buckled. The framed photos of him with the old mayor, the new mayor, and any other dignitary who was willing to stand in front of a camera with him were kind of braggy. And his desk was huge. There was no point in having a desk this large. All it did was collect paperwork. And dust. Charlie ran his hand along the back edge. How much was he paying the cleaning crew? Why was it the only way a job got done right around here was if Charlie did it himself?

The phone on his desk rang. Charlie answered because Darla was busy getting his coffee. “Lam Auto Sales.”

“Mr. Lam?”

Charlie felt a pebble lodge in his throat. “Mr. Chop.”

“Going to the game tomorrow night?”

Charlie hesitated. This was off script. “If you think I should.”

“I heard about your altercation.”

Charlie sat up in his chair. He pictured Mike Thevis outside the kitchen window last night watching Charlie try to fuck himself.

“Finkelmeyer.” Thevis said the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Fuckin’ coon.
Who knew?”

Charlie knew, but he didn’t say.

“People hiding like that. Thinking they can pass. Makes me sick, you know.”

Charlie said nothing.

“Mr. Lam?”

“Yes, Mr. Chop?”

“You’re not hiding anything?”

Charlie felt his stomach drop. “No, sir.”

“Good,” Thevis said. “I’m sure it’ll be easier for you today.”

“Today?”

“When you go to pick up your suit.”

Charlie swallowed. Just the thought of going back to the dry cleaner’s made him feel like he was going to wet his pants. “Yes, sir. I’ll be there as soon as—”

There was a click on the other end of the line.

Charlie hung up the phone. Did Thevis know what was happening to Charlie? Did he know about the curse? The man ran all kinds of porn. The kiddie stuff at the widow’s house was just the tip of the iceberg. There was talk about snuff films. Bondage that went too far. Had Thevis set up Charlie for one of his sick movies?

Charlie gripped the arms of his chair. This was some kind of black voodoo magic that was working on him. If Thevis was involved, then Charlie was fucked more than he thought.

“You okay?” Darla stood with a cup of coffee in each hand.

Charlie felt sweat dripping under his breasts. “Is it hot in here?”

“It’s always hot.” Darla handed him one of the cups. “Your sister called. I said you were with a customer. Two of your brothers called. I should know them by now, but I couldn’t tell you their names.”

“I have that same problem.” He indicated the chair across from him. “Let’s talk.”

Darla sat on the edge of the chair. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, of course not.” Charlie drank the coffee. She’d put in too much sugar, but he didn’t want to upset her so he drank some more.

She asked, “Do you want me to take dictation or—”

“How much do I pay you?”

“I’m not complaining if that’s—”

“I didn’t—”

They both laughed.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “You go first.”

“I’m not complaining. I love my job. I need my job.”

“I know you do.” She had a photograph of a kid on her desk. A boy. Maybe ten years old. She didn’t wear a wedding ring. “You’re alone?”

“My husband died in Vietnam.”

Charlie nodded, though he didn’t have a frame of reference. “I’m sorry.”

“Well.” She shrugged, but her eyes were moist. “Anyway, if there’s ever anything you need. I mean … If you need me to show you how much I need my job. Because I do.”

Charlie held up his hand. Her voice was shaking. He thought about the cop who’d shown up at his girlfriend’s apartment the night of the stabbing.

My friends call me Jo
.

Her breasts smothering his face. Her dirty hands roaming up and down his body. And then when he’d told her no, screamed at her that he didn’t want to, she had looked at Charlie like it was his fault for starting the whole thing.

Had he started the whole thing? Charlie kept playing it back in his head. He must have done something to set her off. She had commented on his suit. He liked the flattery. Maybe that had turned him flirty with her. He’d somehow signaled that it was okay by the way he was sitting or looking at her or tilting his head to the side. She didn’t just jump him out of the blue. So what had he done wrong? One minute, they were sitting and talking like two normal people, and the next minute she was on top of him. He could still taste the nicotine from where she had clamped her hand over his mouth.

“Mr. Lam?” Darla was still sitting on the edge of her seat.

“I’m giving you a raise in your next paycheck.”

“Oh.”

“You do a good job here. You deserve to be recognized for it. And stop calling me Mr. Lam. Call me Charlie like everybody else.”

There were tears in her eyes again. This time, she let them fall. “Thank you, Mr. Lam. Charlie.” She had a pretty laugh. It was contagious. Charlie laughed, too.

“Knock-knock,” Deacon said, but he was already in the room.

Darla got up to leave. Deacon blocked the doorway so she had to squeeze past him.

Charlie struggled to keep his tone even. “Don’t do that to her again.”

“Do what?” Deacon plopped down in the chair. “Christ, buddy, are you crying?”

Charlie wiped his eyes.

“You on the rag or something?”

“Ha-ha,” Charlie said, like that wasn’t even a remote possibility. “What do you want, Deacon? I’ve got work to do.”

“You don’t gotta be a bitch about it.”

“Don’t call me a bitch.”

“Oh, the lady’s sensitive.” Deacon put his feet up on Charlie’s desk. The wood was already scuffed where he’d done this a thousand times before. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you hate me.”

Charlie
did
hate him. He knew this now. He genuinely despised his brother. He didn’t want him around. He didn’t want to hear his voice or see his stupid grin or watch the way he chased all the women around the dealership like they were prime meat.

But what would that say about Charlie—that he didn’t love his own brother? That he threw him out onto the street? People would think he was a monster.

“You in there, buddy?”

Charlie cleared his throat. He couldn’t speak his mind, but he had to say something. “I wish you wouldn’t treat people the way you do.”

“How do I treat them?” Deacon pushed himself up from the chair. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with
me
?” Charlie felt the words start to flow before he could stop them. “How about how you don’t treat me with respect?”

“Don’t treat—”

“You parked in my space last week.”

“And?” Deacon shrugged, like he hadn’t been told a thousand times not to park in Charlie’s space. Like the fucking space didn’t have a
sign
on it that said Charlie’s name.

“You took out my car two months ago. I didn’t give you permission. You left cigarettes overflowing in the ashtray. Who do you think had to clean that out?”

“I told you I’d do it.”

“When?” Charlie demanded. “You said you’d do it, but three days went by and I had to do it myself.”

“Get a fucking porter.” Deacon threw his hands into the air. “What the fuck are you paying them for?”

“That’s not the point and you know it. You made the mess. You should clean it up.”

“Oh, fuck that, Charlie. It’s not about the mess.”

“Of course it’s about the mess. I had to clean it up. Do you know how many things I could’ve been doing instead of cleaning up after you? Things that make money. Things that keep this business open. Things that keep your paycheck rolling in.”

“Oh, that’s what this is about. You pay me, so you own me.”

Charlie shook his head. Deacon always managed to turn it back around.

“What else, brother? Bring it on. You obviously got a list somewhere of all the horrible shit I’ve done to you. Come on. Whip it out.”

Charlie kept shaking his head. He
should
whip it out. Unplug his cock and balls and beat his brother in the head until blood came out of his ears.

Deacon said, “I can’t believe you got your panties in a wad over a fucking hat I put on a chicken.”

It seemed stupid when he said it, but Charlie countered, “It’s not the chicken, Deacon. Or the hat. It’s that I told you not to and you keep doing it. Why? Why do you keep doing it when you know that I don’t want you to?”

“You’re just crazy-talking now.”

“Crazy?” Charlie asked. “You know what’s crazy? That I work my ass to the bone and you, and every worthless piece of shit in our family, expect me to keep doing it while you sit around smoking dope and fucking around and chasing tail and going through money like it’s water. What about me, Deacon? When am I allowed to have fun? When in my fucking life am I ever going to be able to just sit back and let one of you useless, blood-sucking jackasses take care of
me
?”

Deacon said nothing. They both listened to the echo of Charlie’s voice. He hadn’t spoken
these words to his brother. He’d screeched them like a jazz trombone.

“Fuck this. And fuck you.” Deacon slapped the pencil cup off Charlie’s desk. Projectiles flew across the room. He slammed the door so hard the framed photographs banged against the wall.

Charlie took a deep breath. He held it to the count of ten before letting it go. The office felt stifling. Deacon had sucked all of the energy out of the room. Charlie couldn’t be here anymore.

Charlie stood up and collected all the pens off the floor. He arranged them back in the cup. He walked out of his office. He crossed the showroom floor.

Deacon was standing by the chicken. The Braves hat was back on its head.

Charlie rolled his eyes as he walked out the door.

Charlie drove through downtown Atlanta. The city had changed so much since the first time he’d stepped foot on the streets. All the roads were paved. There were streetlights. Tall buildings reached up to the sky. As Charlie drove, all the memories came flooding back: the first time he’d ever ridden up in an elevator was in that building; the first time he’d ever had sex with a woman was in that basement; the first time he’d ever sold anything was in that back alley.

Who would’ve thought that twenty years later, he’d be driving a convertible down the streets with money in his pocket and credit cards in his wallet that had Charlie’s actual name on them?

He wiped his eyes. He was crying again. This was getting ridiculous. He reached down between his legs to make sure his cock was still plugged in.