Three Twisted Stories Part 4

Charlie opened the packet as he walked down the hallway. His guts were still on fire. His eyes hurt. He kept hearing a cracking sound. He glanced over at his brother. "Stop popping your gum."

Deacon gave him a funny look. "You sound like Mom."

"You sound like a pain in my a.s.s." Charlie tossed the headache powder into the back of his throat. He coughed. A puff of white powder came out of his mouth.

"You okay?"

Charlie coughed again. And again. He kept coughing and coughing, until he wasn't really coughing anymore, he was choking.

"Hey." Deacon slammed the heel of his palm into Charlie's back. "You okay?"

Charlie bent at the waist. His eyes were watering. He was dizzy. He felt like he was going to pa.s.s out. Or worse.

"Buddy?" Deacon leaned down to check on him. There wasn't an ounce of concern in his eyes. He seemed excited, like he was watching a movie.

A coffee mug was shoved into Charlie's hand. He drank the whole thing, tasting the cold dregs at the bottom. When he could finally stand up, he saw that it was his secretary who'd saved him.

"Darla," Charlie said. "Thank you."

"Christ, man." Deacon was laughing. "Lookit you. You got tears in your eyes."

"Shut up." Charlie wiped his eyes. He'd almost choked to death and all Deacon did was slam his fist into Charlie's back. "You hurt me."

"I hurt you?" Deacon laughed like it was funny. "Lookit you, cryin' like a slit."

"Shut up." Charlie headed up the hallway toward his office.

"Hey." Deacon caught up with him quickly. He put his hand to the small of Charlie's back. "I know you got somebody waiting, but we need to talk about the blonde."

"What blonde?"

"Where's your brain?" he asked. "Chick from yesterday who wants the Mustang. I'm thinking we could get a little-" He stuck his tongue into his cheek as he made like he was giving a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b.

Charlie slapped his hand away. "Is that what this is about? You want to knock five hundred bucks off that car so-"

"What?" he interrupted. "Of course not. That's crazy. What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you, brother? You need to go to a shrink or something."

He didn't know the half of it. Charlie headed into his office.

"Where are you going?"

"Go back to work, Deacon."

"How am I supposed to work when you won't let me-"

Charlie shut the door.

The black guy sitting across from Charlie's desk stood up and b.u.t.toned his suit jacket. "Mr. Lam."

Charlie said, "Commissioner Ballantine," because that was the name written on a piece of paper tucked inside the breast pocket of the suit he'd picked up at Salmeri's.

"The Chicken Man himself." Ballantine shook Charlie's hand. He didn't let it go immediately. His smile went up a few watts. "I like that tie. Color brings out your eyes."

Charlie pressed down his tie. His daughter had given it to him. There was nothing special about it. "What kind of car were you looking for?" The question was perfunctory. All these black guys wanted new Cadillacs, just like the white guys who worked under the last administration wanted Ford LTDs.

"Hmm." Ballantine made a show of thinking about Charlie's question. "You got any new Cadillacs?"

Charlie walked across the Lenox Square parking lot. There were Braves pennants all around the outdoor square. He could see women sitting at tables having lunch. The sun was high in the sky. It was one of those perfect spring days where everything was blooming. Azaleas, dogwoods, tulips. Normally, all Charlie could think about was the pollen, but now he was feeling wistful because he knew that in a few weeks, all the blooms would fall away.

He headed toward Davison's. He needed new underwear. The toilet paper wasn't enough, and besides, it was disgusting to walk around like this all day. He probably had a bladder infection. Charlie had had one of those years ago. Hurt just the same, like a knife in his back. He'd peed more than blood back then. There was pus. The doctor had said the words "bladder infection" like there was something else going on. Charlie had just gotten back from Vegas. He knew what the something else was, and a.s.sumed the gal who had given it to him would need a dose of penicillin, too.

So, he had a bladder infection. Or a kidney infection. Or he'd caught something off the homeless guy.

The homeless guy.

Melvin Finkelmeyer. They had struggled over the knife. Had he managed to punch Charlie in the back and Charlie didn't remember? The whole thing was a blur to him. Maybe he'd b.u.mped into the door handle. That would explain why the skin felt bruised. Or maybe Charlie had hurt his back when he fell to the ground. He could've landed wrong. Who the h.e.l.l knew what had happened? Whatever it was, Charlie would go to a doctor and get a shot or take some pills and he'd be fine. He made a mental note to make an appointment when he got back from the mall.

Normally, his wife did all his shopping, but Charlie figured by the time he told her what to buy, he could just get it himself. Besides, he wanted some time away from the dealership. Deacon was getting on his last nerve. He had two calls from two brothers who he knew would be asking for money. His girlfriend had called three times, probably to smooth things over about last night, though Charlie wasn't sure that could ever be smoothed over. Worst of all, as he was walking out of the dealership, Darla had handed him a message that the cop from last night had called.

Jo. Probably short for Joanna. Charlie didn't even know her last name. He felt his stomach roil at the memory of her touching him. "Groping" was a more accurate word. Charlie shuddered. He felt dirty every time he thought about it.

So he tried to push it from his mind as he walked through the department store. There were Easter decorations all around. Charlie had forgotten the holiday was coming up. He should get his daughter something. She was too old, but what the h.e.l.l.

Charlie found the men's department in the back of the store. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't this. There were all kinds of underwear, not just his usual briefs. Pajamas with matching robes. Slippers that looked soft enough to make you feel like you were walking on a cloud. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shopped for anything new for himself. There were traveling salesmen who came to the dealership selling s.h.i.t out of the back of their cars-suits, Valentine's roses, steaks, whatever fell off the closest truck.

Being in a mall was different. No one knew Charlie was here. No one was going to run up asking for a favor or a handout or advice. The whole point of these stores was that everybody was there for him. Charlie couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something about the anonymity of being just another shopper that made him feel more content than he'd felt in a long time.

Why not enjoy it?

Charlie had never been a boxers man, but there were some silk boxers with pinstripes that looked comfortable as h.e.l.l. He held them to his waist and looked in the mirror. Jesus, his gut was big. He looked like a cartoon of a fat cat. The pleat in his pants was stretched to the limit. There was a coffee stain on his jacket lapel. His tie was crooked. Had it been that way when Commissioner Ballantine had complimented him on the color? Charlie had told himself that the man was just being polite, but the truth was the whole exchange had made him uncomfortable. What did the color of his tie have to do with picking out a car?

Charlie looked up. A couple of women were staring at him like it was weird for a man to be in the men's department. Maybe they were right. So far as he could tell, Charlie was the only guy in the place. It almost felt dangerous.

He put the silk boxers back on the rack and grabbed a three-pack of Hanes. Maybe he could come back after work and pick out something different. Surely there would be more men around at night. He could probably use a new suit. And his shirt collars were looking frayed. Plus, he was sick of all his ties. He felt like he wore the same thing week after week.

He stopped at one of the displays in the middle of the aisle. Easter baskets. Colorful pastel wrappers covered chocolate eggs. The fake polyester gra.s.s reminded him of Mr. Salmeri's chest hair. Marshmallow Peeps. He never liked those. He didn't see the point. Too many empty calories.

Charlie picked up one of the eggs. Saliva filled his mouth. He could almost taste the chocolate. Charlie unpeeled the wrapper and shoved an egg into his mouth. The sugar and cocoa explosion was so intense that he had to close his eyes. He ate another one. Then another one. Before he knew it, the basket was empty except for the Peeps.

Charlie heard a throat being cleared behind him. The woman at the register was giving him the stinkeye. He grabbed up the Peep basket as well as a new one for his daughter. He walked over to the counter.

"Sorry." Charlie forced a laugh, smiling at the stern brunette. "Couldn't help myself."

She didn't laugh with him. Instead, she rang up the baskets and underwear, hitting the keys hard with her fingers. "Six dollars and twelve cents."

Charlie reached into his pocket. Instead of the wad of cash he normally kept, there was nothing but lint. Charlie laughed again as he reached for his wallet.

f.u.c.k. He'd left it on the bureau at home. He could see the fat billfold in his mind's eye. What was wrong with him? He never walked out without cash.

"Sir?" the woman said.

He read her name off her name tag. "Judy. I have an account here." Charlie leaned against the counter. "I mean, my wife has an account. Mrs. Charles Lam."

"Do you have your driver's license?"

"In my wallet, which I left at home." Charlie winced as he shrugged. He felt his cheeks getting hot. The woman thought he was poor-or worse, a thief. She didn't know he had thousands of dollars in the bank. That he ran a successful business. That he had a wife and child. She thought he was some moocher off the street.

He tried to be pleasant, like this was no big deal. "Can you look up the account?"

Judy s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone. She tugged the rotary around, dialing in the extension. Charlie looked behind him. There was a line. Three women, all dressed to the nines with pointy high heels and perfectly coiffed hair. He could almost hear them judging him. Charlie wasn't wearing his best suit. h.e.l.l, he wasn't even wearing his second-best suit. Two hundred dollars off the rack, sure, but he bought them out of the trunk of a traveling salesman's car for seventy-five bucks, no questions asked.

"Mabel, this is Judy in accessories. Can you look up an account for me?" She tapped her fingers against the counter. Charlie saw her neatly trimmed nails. He wondered if the store made her keep them short. His wife had long fingernails. She had to be careful when she picked up things.

Whatever the store policies, Judy had managed to give herself some flair. Her dark green dress was accented by an emerald-encrusted brooch on her shoulder. The navy blue scarf wrapped around her hair should've clashed with the green, but she managed to carry it off.

"Sir?" Judy said.

She was holding out the phone to Charlie. He took the receiver. The nervousness was back. He'd eaten those chocolates. There was no way to return them. Would they call the police?

He cleared his throat. "This is Charles Lam."

There was nothing on the line except music. Karen Carpenter's version of "Ticket to Ride." Jesus Christ on a Peep, Charlie was never gonna get away from that song.

Finally, the music stopped. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Yes, this is Charles Lam."

"I have your account information, but I need your wife's confirmation that you are who you say you are."

Charlie chuckled, letting her know this was all some sort of misunderstanding. "Of course. Call her at home."

"We have the number on file. I already tried, but no one picked up."

Charlie glanced over his shoulder at the waiting women. They looked even angrier than Judy. Charlie felt sweat running down his back and pooling into his underwear.

"Sir?"

Charlie breathed into the phone. "Could you try her again?"

The woman said nothing, but he heard the sharp clicks of a rotary being dialed. Charlie felt his shoulders hunch. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so out of place.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"I'm here," Charlie said, but he realized the woman was talking to someone else.

"This is Ms. Cooper at Davison's department store. I was calling to speak to Mrs. Charles Lam?"

Charlie held his breath. He strained his ears to listen. All he heard was background noise: typewriters whirring and other women talking. He pictured them sitting at their desks making phone calls to husbands to verify that their wives were allowed to spend their money. This was ridiculous. Charlie had a job. h.e.l.l, he didn't just have a job, he employed other people. What right did they have to treat him this way? This was all just a misunderstanding. He'd left his wallet at home. It's not like he was a bank robber.

"Sir?" The woman came back on the line. "I'm sorry. Mrs. Lam wasn't in."

"Who did you talk to?"

"The maid, I believe. Can you hand the phone back to Ms. McGuire?"

Charlie did as he was told. He felt hollow inside, like the time he'd shown up to school and all the other kids were gone because their parents had paid for them to take a field trip.

The phone slammed down. Judy glared at him.

Charlie mumbled, "I'm sorry." He didn't know what else to say. He walked away from the counter. His shoulders were up around his ears by the time he reached the door. He half expected a security guard to s.n.a.t.c.h him up by the collar and drag him to the police station. s.h.i.t, what would that be like? Waiting in jail with a bunch of other b.u.ms, hoping to G.o.d his wife would come bail him out?

Speaking of his wife, where the h.e.l.l was she? Sue was always home. She didn't trust the maid. She was sure the woman was stealing the change off Charlie's bureau. He kept it in a jar. Every Christmas, he would count it out and they'd use the money to buy presents for his daughter.

"s.h.i.t," Charlie muttered. He had a strange image pop into his head: Sue banging some guy. Charlie couldn't see the man's face, but for the life of him, he couldn't get the idea out of his head.

Charlie pushed on the door just as a woman was opening it. "I'm sorry, I-"

The woman smiled at him. "Please." She held open the door.

It was an awkward situation, but Charlie went first. Outside, the sun was even more brutal than before. His head started to pound as he walked through the outdoor eating area. The entire mall was packed with women. What had he been thinking, coming here? He didn't belong in a place like this.

Charlie picked up the pace. He held up his hand to try to keep the sun from burning his eyeb.a.l.l.s. There were footsteps behind him. Charlie turned. He had to blink several times to clear his vision. It was another woman. She was carrying two bags in one hand.

Christ, he was never going to get away from these broads.

Charlie walked faster toward the car. He pulled his keys out of his pocket. He jammed them into the lock. They fell onto the ground.

"Sir?" the woman called. "Can I give you a hand?"

"No, thank you."

"You're sure?"

What was he, twelve? "No, thank you."

He waited for her to leave before he opened the car door. After a moment's scrambling, he found some change under the Buick's floor mats. Charlie tucked his hands into his pockets as he headed toward the road. He pulled back the door to the phone booth. He dropped a dime into the slot. He dialed his home number. He waited through six rings before Mary Jane picked up.

"Lam residence."

"It's Charlie," he told the maid. "Is Mrs. Lam home?"

"Nawsir, she's usually out this time of day."

"Usually?" he echoed, not liking the way the word sounded. "Usually" meant a routine. "Usually" meant always. "Where does she go?"

Mary Jane hesitated, and in that hesitation, Charlie saw his whole life flash before his eyes. Was she really out banging some guy? Could Sue do that to him? s.h.i.t, he'd done it to her, but that was different. Charlie was just letting off some steam. If Sue was f.u.c.king some other dude, it was because she felt something for him.

"Sir?" Mary Jane said.