Dead Wrong About the Guy

  Dead Wrong About the Guy

  Frederick Zackel

  Frederick Zackel

  Dead Wrong About the Guy

  The waitress was young, maybe seventeen years old, very short and very skinny. She looked fragile and small, a mere whisper of a woman, which I figured she hated about herself. But I could also see she was working hard at overcoming her faults. See, her blonde hair had been chopped short and then dyed a bright magenta. She also had three earrings in one ear and a butterfly tattoo on the crest of her right breast.

  She was the waitress on duty at the Pier Inn Restaurant and I was in the back booth. I was her last lunch customer. Although it fronted the piers and the gas dock, the restaurant was a bit out of the way, a tad off the beaten track and not flashy enough to attract the tourists, like this part of Maui itself. Inside, the eatery had checkered curtains and no table cloths, a half-dozen tables, booths along either side wall, and a counter with swivel stools.

  I looked up from my paper as she approached. "What did the parrot say about me?"

  The skinny young waitress was caught off-guard, and so she blushed, which surprised her. She hadn't seen me look over at her. She got ballsy to cover her confusion. "I said, that's a guy married to his job," she said. "I said, look how he's got his head buried in a newspaper."

  "And what’s that mean to you?"

  "What a waste! If he moves his head six inches, bang!, he's looking at one of the most sensational sunsets Maui ever had."

  I looked out at the sunset, then at her.

  "Well, you had your head buried in that newspaper," she said lamely.

  I looked at the newspaper, then at her.

  She said, "That newspaper's the dead giveaway. When I see a guy with his nose in a newspaper like that, he's used to traveling alone and eating alone. Bet you spend your whole life on business trips. You’re a salesman or something. Bet you doesn't even know what state you’re in now."

  "So, do you talk to the parrot a lot?"

  "Only when the place is slow." She turned on a dime and became a waitress again. "I didn't think you were ready to order."

  I folded the paper, set it aside, and gave her my undivided attention. "I'm ready to order now."

  She said, "Okay. What would you like?"

  "I'll have a chef salad. Blue cheese on the side."

  "Anything to drink?"

  "Coffee. Black."

  "Anything else?"

  I shook my head, gave her back the menu. When she left for the kitchen, I watched her walk. Once her cute little butt disappeared into the kitchen, I went back to my newspaper.

  Moments later, she returned with my salad.

  "Thanks."

  I started eating, still reading my newspaper.

  The waitress went behind the counter, poured herself a cup of coffee, and watched me for a while. She brought the coffee pot and filled my cup. I looked up, "noticed" her so I smiled a customer's smile, but said nothing to her, and she said nothing to me.

  She came back when I was half-finished.

  "How was it?" she asked.

  I didn't look up. "Fine."

  She didn't leave. "You always eat just a salad only?"

  I noticed her for the second time. "Yeah."

  "You don't look like a vegetarian."

  "You live longer if you keep your weight down."

  She looked at the broad-leafed salad and she knew better.

  I added, "That's if you don't die from the pesticides first."

  She stared suspiciously at my chef's salad, then looked quizzically at the guy. "Something I should know about?"

  "No. There was nothing wrong with my salad."

  "Oh. Okay." She tried being a waitress again. "How’s your meal?"

  "It was as magnificent as Maui. Or you."

  We made eye contact, and I was surprised that her eyes could meet mine for as long they did. When she found herself blushing, she left for the kitchen. I smiled.

  As she left, Flea Nichols entered the restaurant.

  I almost laughed seeing Flea Nichols after all those years. Flea was a small guy in his thirties, but he was already out-of-shape. And though his hair was receding, he wore it long and tied back in a ponytail. He wore a gaudy aloha shirt two sizes too big for him. Spindly legs poked out of his khaki shorts. Seeing the man in the back booth, he went pale as a ghost.

  I beckoned Flea to join me. Flea Nichols reluctantly came and sat across from me.

  I laughed, then slapped Flea Nichols' leg. "So tell me about it, Flea!" I said cheerily. "Tell me why I came four thousand miles to see you."

  Flea's fingers trembled as he took ten one-hundred dollar bills from his wallet and passed them across the table to me.

  I looked the money over. The bills were real, used bills and out of sequence. I didn't return the money. They were mine now.

  Flea was jittery. "They're real, Mister Paoli. A guy up here gave them to me to get somebody willing to listen to a deal he wants pulled off."

  We cruised past the city limits of Kahului in my rented Mustang.

  I said, "Up here? You mean, over here, not up here."

  Flea shrugged whatever. "He wants this deal bad. He can't do it himself, 'cause everybody knows him too well. He'd be the first place they'd look if anything came down."

  "What's his name?"

  "Corky Collins."

  "How much money does he have?"

  Flea doesn't know, can't guess. "He's rich enough, I know that."

  "Where's his money come from? Tourists?"

  "Chickens, actually. Yeah, chickens. Fryers, actually. He raises and sells chickens to restaurants and grocery stores. And he owns a chicken processing plant next to City Park. It's not a big operation, but most of the farmers go through him."

  I was amused. "A chicken farmer. Well, why not? His money's as good as yours, right, Flea?"

  We passed a roadsign of a leaping deer with a bullethole through his chest. I noticed that the sight of the deer with a bullethole made Flea wince.

  "So he went to you. Flea Nichols. The bookkeeper."

  Flea sank into despair. "He didn't know anybody in Vegas, even, and you know how long I lived there."

  "Income tax preparation, that was your front, wasn't it?"

  "I was always legit on that, Mister Paoli."

  "What's he got on you, Flea?"

  "Checks," Flea reluctantly admitted.

  I was stunned by his stupidity. "You kited bad paper?"

  Flea was embarrassed. "Yeah, well ... See, getting him an interview with you, with whoever got sent, is the only way I can get those checks back. He threatened to turn me in to the Sheriff's Office--"

  "How did he know about you?"

  "All I know is, he retraced my steps, everything, and found out about my record, all the time I served, and started leaning on me--"

  I was ice. "Have you been using your real name, Flea?"

  "Why not?" Flea whined. "How would anybody over here know I did time?"

  I snorted at such incredible stupidity.

  "Hey, I came over here straight, and I swear it, I been straight, really."

  "How come you don't leave over here?"

  Flea said, "I love it too much, Mister Paoli. I love Maui a lot. I want to stay and stop running in circles like some hamster in a cage."

  "Here?" I looked out the window at Maui, as if for the first time, to see what Flea found in Maui. "What's here?"

  Flea continued, "Maybe, when you get to a certain age, you just start thinking about settling in."

  I stared at him with disbelief. "A two-bit shit like you saying that?"

  "Can you help me?"

  I wouldn't commit. "Calling us was the only thing you done smart. An
d that still might not be enough. Who knows what this guy's got going down."

  Flea was almost pleading. "This guy's got this deal going down, Mister Paoli, and he's got me hassled into the middle of it, and I don't know what else to do!"

  I snorted my contempt. "I can believe that."

  Suddenly Flea reached over and turned off the ignition. The car died, and it slowed like a slug on the highway.

  Flea was frantic. "You can't leave me helpless like this."

  The Mustang stayed stopped in the fast lane of the highway. A few cars came up behind us, then went around us. Some assholes even tooted their horns.

  I ignored them all and made no move to restart the Mustang. I stared, amazed and surprised, at the desperate Flea.

  "I got no chance of surviving without you in on it!"

  "Why should I help you? Who are you, Flea? Hey, nobody calls you Flea because you're a big man."

  "Mister Paoli, please!"

  I stared for a long moment at Flea. Amused at seeing a new, even more desperate side to Flea, I decided I wanted to see more of this new man.

  "Okay, I will look around--"

  Flea was surprised. "Then you'll help me?"

  I shrugged. "I won't go that far.

  "Thank you, thank you, Mister Paoli--"

  "I'll look around," I cautioned Flea. "Nothing more--"

  "Thank you," Flea gushed, "thank you, Mister Paoli."

  "One thing first, Flea. While I'm here, you call me Michael Bishop. Don't call me Paoli, understand?"

  Flea agreed instantly. "Yes, sir, Mister Paoli." Then he corrected himself. "Yes, sir, Mister Bishop!"

  I stared with sad, menacing eyes. I started the Mustang.

  Paradise Bowl was a bowling alley set off from the highway, between an auto muffler shop and a karaoke saloon. It was a two story building that could withstand a hurricane or an economic boom. The parking lot was crushed lava and half-filled with older model cars. a sign out front said "Bowl Where The Pros Bowl."

  Flea kept me from leaving the Mustang. "Ah, Mister Pao-- Mister Bishop!" He was frightened. "After this is all over ... I mean, I'm being straight with you on this whole deal ... " He started pleading. "Don't blame me, okay, Mister Paoli, please?"

  I made no promises.

  We left the Mustang and walked towards the building.

  "Why are we here, Flea?"

  "See, his ranch and the processing plant pretty much run themselves, so he just hangs out playing poker in the card room upstairs."

  "A regular game?"

  Flea nodded. "He plays every afternoon and gets home for supper every night."

  At the front door, a deputy sheriff leaving the building held the door open for us entering. I thanked him.

  Once inside, I elbowed Flea. "I gather the cops don't know about the game."

  Flea just looked desperate.

  The bowling alley was noisy and full of beer breath and cigarette smoke. A woman in her mid-forties was working the cashier's counter. We looked each other over, but I looked away first. She was attractive, but her eyes were dead as a doornail from boredom. I felt her eyes follow us as we moved through the bowling alley.

  Flea led me past the bowlers, down a back corridor, through a side door, and then up a narrow staircase. We went through a storage area, surrounded by crates and cartons, and entered the last room at the rear of the building.

  We stood watching a five-handed poker game. All the players were in their mid-forties or older. They noticed us, recognized Flea, then ignored us both.

  Flea deciphered the game. "Twenty bucks is the buy-in. Minimum ante is a quarter. Fumble the shuffle and your hand dies. No limit on table stakes."

  "Which one's the one?"

  "The one with his back to the wall," Flea said.

  "And his name is?"

  "Corky Collins."

  When Corky Collins spotted Flea Nichols, his face stayed poker blank. He was a smug and cocky bantam rooster. He decided to tell his newest joke. "You boys all know what a Freudian slip is, right?" he asked his card buddies. Once they grunted, he began:

  "These two guys are sitting in the cocktail lounge over at Honolulu International, a couple bar stools away from each other, both looking mournful. The first one says, Jesus, did I make a Freudian slip today. My wife and I were in the ticket counter, the airline clerk had these great ol' melons for breasts, and I gotta tell her, 'Give me two tits to Los Angeles!'"

  The card players suspended their disbelief.

  Corky Collins said, "The second guy says, That's nothing. This morning my wife burns the toast, and I said, 'Bitch, you've ruined my life!'"

  He preened, while the other players, all long-time married men, snickered, or snorted, or generally noted their approval.

  Corky started counting his chips. "Deal me out, boys."

  "His back's to the wall." I was amused. "Only time I see that is in bad Western movies."

  I asked Flea, "Which way's the restroom?"

  Corky Collins followed us into the restroom and found me washing my hands with a bar of soap provided by the bowling alley. He gave me a big grin and extended his hand to shake my hand.

  "Corky Collins."

  "Michael Bishop." I dried my hands before I shook his hand. "Talk to me, Corky Collins."

  Corky said, "Flea said you were a contractor. That you can get things done."

  I corrected him. "I'm an estimator. This visit is just an estimate I'm making. I look over the job and then I make my report to the home office. Maybe we make a bid on the job. Maybe not."

  Corky looked me over, must have had his doubts because the fool decided to play hardball. "You don't look like a professional killer," Corky said.

  I couldn’t believe the fucker could be so dumb!

  I was sharp. "You got a big mouth!"

  Flea stepped between us. He was deferential to me. "He's just from a different world, Mister Bishop."

  Irritated with Flea's standing up for my interests and not his, Corky jabbed me with a finger. "I made a sizable investment here--"

  I didn't lose my temper. I simply jabbed Corky's face twice quickly. With my free hand, I shoved Corky's shirtfront and knocked him off-balance. Corky, caught by surprise, slipped and fell to one knee.

  Over my shoulder, I said, "Watch the door, Flea!"

  I motivated Flea with a shove towards the restroom door. As Corky got to his feet, I pushed the man against the shithouse walls and grabbed him by the throat, that handful of flesh surrounding the windpipe, twisted my fist and that brought Corky back to his knees again.

  Corky was helpless in my grip. He couldn't breathe, was being strangled, was choking. Me, I felt good.

  I kept my face smooth as ice. "Small men shouldn't have such big mouths," I said softly.

  Corky was turning red in the face, maybe was dying.

  Then Flea was hissing like a snake. "Mister Paoli, please!"

  I flung Corky Collins aside, then turned on Flea. I grabbed Flea by the shirt, slammed him into the wall, and hoisted him up close. I breathed my anger on him, but couldn’t talk for a moment.

  "Your mouth, too!" I snarled, and shoved him off to one side.

  Flea shrank away, pleading. "Please!"

  "That's the second time today you've interfered!"

  "You gotta let him live, Mr. Paoli!"

  I kicked Flea in the side of the head, but not lethal, then hauled Corky by the shirt to his feet. I grabbed the bar of soap from the sink, then pushed Corky against the urinals. With my hand, I pushed Corky's chin up, exposing the soft fleshy neck. Then I used the soap to draw a line across Corky's throat.

  "Next time I'll use a knife!"

  I threw the bar of soap in the sink.

  Corky could talk again.

  He rasped, "I gave you a thou--"

  I cut him off. "Fuck your money! And fuck you!" I stalked from the restroom.

  Outside, in the parking lot I stalked over to my rental. I should have driven off. Instead, I glowered at the da
rk ocean and I hated myself most for staying. I was still raging when Flea Nichols caught up with me.

  "He's an asshole!" I turned to Flea. "And don't call me Paoli again!"

  Flea was contrite. "I'm sorry, sir."

  Corky Collins, whipped and sheepish, came out of the bowling alley. He had wet some paper towels and was still rubbing away at his neck.

  "Please meet with him again," Flea begged.

  I stared at Flea and thought of every reason why I should split. And I thought about the one reason I was staying. I ended up laughing more at myself than at the situation. Then I relented. I gestured east, up the coast. "Tell him ten minutes. First turn-off, two miles from here. That way!"

  Flea hurried off.

  I watched Flea talking with Corky. "Assholes!" I growled. I took a deep breath. "But this is the last one!" I swore. I wasn't being paid enough to put up with this crap.

  Flea came back, and we climbed in the Mustang.

  I made sure the Mustang left the parking lot in a hurry, my spinning tires spewing gravel and dust. Corky Collins, looking lost, desperate and whipped, watched us leave. After a moment's hesitation, he walked to his own pickup truck.

  When Corky's pickup truck arrived at the meeting place, I had the Mustang parked off the highway, away from the tourists. There were several phone booths at this roadside stop. I watched Corky park his truck and walk over to us. Then I made Flea go walk on the beach.

  Corky was still sheepish. "I was out of line."

  "What do you want done?"

  "Flea told you, didn't he?"

  "I need to hear you say it."

  "I'll pay ten thousand dollars to have my wife killed," Corky said.

  "You do know murdering your wife is illegal."

  Corky blinked, surprised I would even consider bringing up the obvious.

  "Murder for Hire. That usually starts with a jail sentence of twenty-five years to life. With good behavior, you'd get out in seventeen years."

  "Why all this shit?"

  "I want you to know what you're getting into. Going through with this, your life will never be the same ever again."

  Corky was impatient. "I know that."

  "And I want you to know how Vegas feels about this offer of yours. At the least, we're very suspicious."

  "Ten grand if you can do it."