The Milk Wagon Page 14

  When he struck out in the den, he continued zigzagging through the house, starting with the kitchen then down the hall and through the bedrooms. When he finished one room, he would return to the den window, surveying what was going on outside to see if anyone had grown suspicious or if anyone had pulled up, then go back to where he left off. The streets were predictably quiet, and there were no interruptions to throw off his rhythm.

  He came up empty-handed after searching the kitchen and thought he would finally strike pay dirt when he got to her office. As he dug, though, all he found was the typical paraphernalia one would expect from a legitimate pharmaceutical sales rep. Boxes of samples, tear pads, posters for doctor’s offices, and more pens than anyone should ever need were stacked and sorted on the floor and on her desk. Drawers contained receipts, notebooks, detail pieces, and a few opened packets of gum. He thought he found a ledger under a PDR, but it was only call notes and a work binder.

  Eventually, panic set in when it dawned on him that it was not in the house. When he closed the last drawer, his head started to pound and he broke out in a cold sweat. He dabbed his brow with the hem of his t-shirt and went to the kitchen to get a cup of water. He couldn’t figure out why he was starting to feel so bad until he looked at his watch. He had been searching without stopping since he got there, and in his quest to make sure the house remained pristine, he lost track of time. He carried the water to the coffee table and got on one knee. He pulled a small packet out of his shorts and fumbled its contents on to the table. He leaned over and snorted the coke until there was none left, bypassing the usual step of cutting and lining it up. He let it take effect and then dabbed and licked the remaining residue until the surface of the coffee table gave no appearance that it, too, had been compromised, then he wiped it down with a cotton ball and some rubbing alcohol he found in the bathroom.

  It was only a matter of minutes before the headache disappeared, the shakes abated, and he could once again think clearly. He checked his nose for blood, and his fingers came away clean. He looked around, and it dawned on him that while he had made fun of the neighborhood earlier, he actually liked Charlotte’s little abode. It smelled like it had never been dirty -- not quite like a brand new house, but more like his grandmother’s house when they would sleep with the windows open in April. He had debated about when he should leave, but the longer he sat, the more comfortable he felt. He went to the kitchen to see what Charlotte kept in the fridge, hoping he would find something more substantive than a salad. He was happy to see real food and grabbed some turkey and cheese to make a sandwich, which he brought back into the den, along with a half-eaten bag of Lay’s potato chips and a Barq’s root beer.

  Along with the munchies, a hit of coke usually brought on a wave of confidence coupled with a side dose of nostalgia, and as he sat there chomping down, he realized he really could get used to living like this. He imagined coming home one day to a house with an actual yard and a guest room. He would have a wife greet him at the front door and a kid or two to tuck in and tell stories before bedtime. He would definitely have a dog and a fence; maybe he’d even start going to church again. In that moment he didn’t care any more about the game, the fix, or the score. He could ditch it all, and he would be just fine.

  Except he couldn’t ditch it all. Before any of his grand plans could even begin to take effect, he needed to find a way to kick his habit. He needed to be able to get out of town on a whim if need be. He needed to have the means to start over. To do any of this, he needed money.

  What then, to do with Charlotte? Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe when Doc kicked her out of the sack, he broke all ties with her. Perhaps she wasn’t hoarding or hiding the ledgers. Perhaps if he got her face-to-face, he could get a better handle on what she knew and what she didn’t know. The prospect of meeting her had its own set of problems, however, not the least of which was what he should do with her after they talked, to put it mildly.

  He checked his watch and figured he had one hour – maybe two, tops, before she got home. As he started to put together the beginnings of a plan, he popped in a mixtape he found next to the stereo. He looked around the house as the opening guitar chords electrified the room and asked himself the same question posed by the Clash, recognizing that they expressed it in a much cooler way than he ever could.

  Should he stay or should he go?

  Chapter 35

  As Charlotte drove home, she couldn’t help but congratulate herself on a job well done. Even when it looked like it might get dicey when Agent Cooper pulled that checkbook out, she maintained her composure; in fact, she couldn’t think of one instance where she stumbled. To the contrary, she had checked nearly every box on her list.

  She did wonder, however, why the account on the checkbook had Ford’s son’s name on it and not his. She would look at the rest of the accounts later to see if they were set up that way. Of course, it didn’t matter if they were. She was about to drain each and every one of them to zero and move the money where no one would find it – or find her, for that matter. He had made it too easy. It was nice of him to keep all of the account information in one spot – including the passwords. An uncharacteristic move for Ford, but he had probably grown too confident, if not cocky, that it would never see the light of day.

  Charlotte knew it was the password because that fine lady at the bank in Wiggins with the three-pack-a-day voice processed Charlotte’s little telephonic experiment without so much as a single question. Money transferred – no problem. Now that she knew it would work, all Charlotte had to do was move the full balance from all the accounts. Then she would pack up and get out of the country before anyone knew what had happened.

  First things first. She needed a drink. When she got inside, she grabbed a bottle of Cabernet given to her by a horny young cardiologist one night after a company-sponsored dinner. The wine went down smooth, and when she started to wonder how much it cost, she stopped herself and smiled when she realized she would soon no longer have to consider those types of questions. On her way to her bedroom she turned on her stereo and was surprised to hear a tape playing. She didn’t recall putting one in, but since it was provided by one of her other M.D. suitors after a very pleasurable overnight visit, she left it in.

  She had hidden the briefcase in a storage unit off Pass Road that she used to share with another Samantof sales rep named Christy Warren. At one time, all the sales reps kept their boxes of samples and promotional items in storage lockers, but company policy changed, and all materials were now supposed to be kept at home. Christy had it paid for it through the end of the year, and when her husband got transferred to Texas, Charlotte asked if she could use it until the lease ran out – mainly to store a couch and some odds and ends she was trying to sell. Christy didn’t care, and Charlotte had used it for the very purpose she stated. Up until that point.

  She set the wine next to her bed, and then changed into some pajama pants and a t-shirt before sprawling out on the mattress. She was going to miss this little house. Of course, she was sure she would get over it after she spent a few nights in her new casita in Barcelona. We all have crosses to bear, she thought as she sat up to stretch. She reached over to get another sip, but her hand never made it to the glass.

  A shadow from behind the door moved, and in her haste to get away, she kicked the nightstand, splattering wine all over her carpet.

  He was on her before she could even scream.

  Chapter 36

  The St. John High School Class of 1980 will forever go down as the wildest, most out-of-control group of students to ever grace the corridors of those hallowed halls. I blame my twin brothers Chuck and Will and their compadres for a lot of the shadowing we got from the teachers when I did finally make it to the big house a few years later. Word is their class started out their spirit week by setting three pigs loose in the halls – numbering them one, two, and four to make things interesting. Then they took severa
l classroom doors off their hinges and hid them in different parts of the city with ransom notes written on chalkboards providing clues to their whereabouts. They stopped up all the toilets, put Pez dispensers in the tampon machines and spliced a second line into the intercom system, then ran the Bee Gees on a loop for two hours before anyone could figure out how to stop them. It was bad enough they were playing disco, but to add insult to injury, they dubbed “Night Fever” to say “Nice Beaver.” Over and over. The night before the pep rally they snuck into our opponents’ school – unfortunately named the Trojans – and put rubbers on all the lockers.

  After that experience, the junta issued a set of retaliatory rules and oppressive guidelines designed to avoid anything close to a repeat. By the time I rolled in as a seventh grader, they had all but abolished the tradition of spirit week. No more dressing up, no more floats, and no more themed days – unless you counted Spirit Day, which was lame -- a mediocre event, at best, where everyone wore blue and white and attended a tired pep rally that played like a North Korean campaign propaganda film.

  Our class went along to the extent we had to, but we were not without means of our own to make the days more bearable. Fish Feeders was one example. The secret make-out corner behind the library trailer was another. The ability to pilfer as many free French fries when Mr. Klein was working the cafeteria was well known. Perhaps the greatest asset we had was our cohesion. We were as tight as seventy-four teenagers could be, and we lived by that bond. No ratting each other out, no infighting, no stealing, and most importantly, if we needed to come together to accomplish an objective, we did. Which was why the Sunday after Fish Feeders, Mark, Hop, Emily, Ben, Antonio, and Sammy showed up at my house for what turned out to be an all-day work session. The school might not have sanctioned any official homecoming events, but they never said we couldn’t have any unofficial events, and if the school wasn’t going to do its job, we would.

  The plan was to start the week off with a parade – and as long as we arrived on time and stayed within the dress code, there wasn’t a whole lot they could do. If they wanted “Hooray for Hollywood,” then by golly, we were going to give it to them. We broke the class into groups of eight to ten and assigned them a movie with each group agreeing to do their part to give it everything they had.

  We drew Ghostbusters, and my buddies did not disappoint. When we rolled in to the designated marshaling area near the Winn-Dixie parking lot on Monday, the Milk Wagon looked as close to Ecto-1 as an old tricked out Suburban could. It had everything the original had and more. Two scuba tanks, the housing of a window air conditioner, a radar bulb, part of a bullhorn, and a cardboard carpet roll wrapped in aluminum foil that looked like a rocket tube. I didn’t even ask where Sammy got the siren and light bar, but it was perfect. Emily – the artist – put the icing on the cake when she hand painted a near-perfect logo on poster board that we taped to the sides.

  Me, Mark, Sammy, and Antonio went as Venkman, Ray, Spengler, and Winston, respectively. Our suits were old painter coveralls, and our guns were made out of converted backpacks and old vacuum hoses and attachments. Hop, of course, went as Louis – typecast to the bone – and Emily about knocked me on the floor when she stepped out as Dana. Sigourney Weaver herself would have been jealous. Travis showed up in a suit and said he was Ray Parker, Jr. The rest of the parking lot was a sight to behold. From The Empire Strikes Back to Pretty in Pink and everything in between, we had it all. The Chief was going to be so surprised.

  It came time to organize the cars, and Emily and some of the other girls, clipboards in hand, started lining them up one by one. Right before we got the signal to go, we heard the screeching of tires, and Ferris appeared from behind the grocery store going at least forty, if not more. Nate wheeled it our way, and when he pulled up next to me and rolled down his window, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  Nate’s face was green all over and he was wearing what looked to be a latex bald cap – also green, but not quite the same shade. Very much not Nate. He sported a grin so wide it looked like all his teeth were showing.

  “I didn’t miss anything did I?” He looked at the Milk Wagon and whistled. “Dang, that looks good.”

  “No you didn’t miss anything. But what – who are you supposed to be?”

  “Hold on. Y’all got room in there for me?”

  “Sure.” He pulled over and parked, and when he opened his door, we fell out laughing. Nate was wearing green pants and a green shirt. He reached in the bed and grabbed a green bean bag chair that had all the stuffing out of it. He put it on and poked his head and arms through the holes he had cut and walked over our way, still smiling like he had won a prize.

  “What in the world?” Antonio asked, shaking his head.

  Mark called it first. “Slimer!”

  Nate had nailed it. His homemade Slimer costume was better than any of the others by far. Whether it would survive dress code scrutiny was a different story, but at that moment, he was king of the world.

  When everyone started chanting “Slim-er! Slim-er! Slim-er!” Nate started hopping around and dancing – not just around the Milk Wagon, but up and down the line. He was whooping and hollering and high-fiving everyone he could, yelling “Who you gonna call!” each time he slapped a hand.

  I was watching a changed man. This was not the same person who showed up in the St. John parking lot that early August morning not knowing a soul. Heck, it wasn’t even the same person who went to the movies with us just a few weeks before. By the time he made his way back to the Milk Wagon, Nate had changed his mantra and was now hanging out of the window, hollering “I ain’t ’fraid of no ghost!” to everyone we passed on the road. It was a phrase I thought quite fitting.

  “You ready?” I asked.

  He scratched his bald cap then leaned over and yelled out the window, “I ain’t ’fraid of no ghost!” one more time at a car that pulled up next to us and honked. After they passed, he slipped back in his seat and leaned up between me and Hop.

  “Do what, now?”

  “You ready to roll?”

  “You better believe it,” he said with a grin, then leaned over to turn up the radio. “Money for Nothing” was playing. “I’m ready for anything.”

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “Anything.”

  I believed him.

  Chapter 37

  For a bachelor pad, it was quite nice. In fact, it was so well done, Kat would have been happy living there herself. It had been a small hardware store back when downtown Gulfport used to have small hardware stores downtown. Rick bought it at a foreclosure sale when he transferred from Jackson and fixed it up himself, one weekend at a time. He moved in when it was partially livable and slept on the floor until he finished. Now the upstairs had exposed brick on two walls, along with a bedroom, bath, seating area, and balcony. Downstairs had brick on three walls that pulled the open kitchen and living area together perfectly. He hadn’t even been in a year, and it still smelled new on the inside.

  The funny thing was that Kathryn had never noticed the place, even though she drove by it every day. Now each little detail stood out like a freshly discovered treasure, and she wondered how he was able to afford it. She knew how much cops made, and even with Rick’s salary, it seemed like a lot. The New Orleans door with the aged bronze accents. The gaslight out front. Rick even went so far as to preserve one of the old signs that had been painted onto the exterior brick, and if Kat looked closely enough, she could see the faint outline of a Morgan’s Hardware logo from two generations ago.

  Of course, Kathryn also had ample time to inspect the finer details of the inside – especially the original tongue and groove cypress that ran the whole length of the upstairs ceiling. She had slept there three times since their first date at the gallery, and each was better than the last. Initially, it was a bit awkward, and she felt self-conscious taking off her clothes. She hadn’t done that in t
he presence of anyone other than her doctor in years, but she had no need to worry. Rick was so patient and complimentary, he put her at ease. Now Kathryn could barely contain herself as she waited for him to wake up so she could send him off to work properly.

  Kathryn, for once, was taking a day away from the office – the first scheduled time off for her in over a year. It had been a hell of a week, and even though she still had a lot to do, she needed a day to recharge. With Friday spilling into the weekend, it felt like the beginning of a three-day vacation. Between all the paperwork from the Mayes raid and working overtime to try and follow-up on her other leads, Kathryn was exhausted. She hadn’t made a lot of additional inroads on the case – yet – but she had Agent Davis and others running down the rabbit trails trying to find more information on this Eddie fellow.

  She thought focusing on the gallery exhibit could help clear out some of the work cobwebs, so she had Marty Deen’s dad drop his sketchpad off at the office, and she brought it to Rick’s. She planned to get a cup of coffee and go through it out on the balcony. She slid over to the edge of the mattress as quietly as she could and reached for her bag, but she wasn’t quiet enough.

  “You up already?” Rick Papania rolled over and halfway opened an eye. “I thought you were going to sleep in.”

  “I was,” she said, “but even though I’m off today, it’s still hard for me to sleep past six. Plus, once I woke up, my mind started racing, and, well, you know how that is. So I thought I could sneak out and . . .”

  “Come here.”

  “Hold on.” Mornings in the real world were never like mornings in the movies. Kathryn slid out of bed to go to the bathroom. Not only did she need to tinkle, but she wanted to brush her teeth. She liked the way Rick had made a spot on the counter for her toothbrush and cleaned out one of the cabinet drawers for her girly things. As she brushed, he walked up behind her and put his arms around her waist and then reached around to cup her breasts, his fingers finding her nipples. He was wearing a pair of boxer shorts, and all she had on was one of his t-shirts.