Lake

Short Story Fiction

They found his bloated body floating in a cove in Table Rock Lake near the James River arm. He was unrecognizable. The DNA identified him as one of the gang members to an up and coming drug kingpin, answering to the name Justice. The name didn’t seem to fit a gang leader but don’t tell him that or you may feel his long arm. 

            The floater was known to locals as Tats, due to all the elaborate tattoos he had. I met him once before I was aware of the gang and the lake house they occupied. The massive house sat on a point with unobstructed views from three directions, which was important for lake property, but more important if you’re the drug lord.

* * *

            The house was a half-mile across the lake from my small chateau. I never gave it much thought because it was just one of the many gigantic homes on the lakefront. Branson attracts a lot of celebrities; so big fancy houses are ordinary. I stayed off the lake on weekends, no need to fight for space with the young bucks and their cigarette boats. Tuesday through Thursday was my time on the lake. 

            Most days I would putter around in my johnboat fishing a few coves on my side of the lake. But on this day I wasn’t getting any bites, so I went clear across the lake to a cove that had received good fishing reports. It was off the main channel next to the point where the gang’s house sat. I picked a spot and threw my line in then waited patiently. After a few minutes, I got a bite and reeled in a small, largemouth bass. I tossed it back. 

            Within two hours I caught three dinner size bass and decided to call it a day. I started the motor and made my way at a good clip toward the main channel when I hit an underwater dike. The motor flipped up before it fell back violently hitting the transom. This was bad. I could see that I had damaged the lower unit. I wasn’t going anywhere, except where the current would take me. I was floating right toward the dock at the house on the point.  I noticed three men on the dock all dressed in black. Odd since it was about 95 degrees that day. The closer I got to the dock the more men I saw. I counted eight men in black. One had his jacket slung over his shoulder exposing his massive tattooed arms. There was no doubt he was the boss. My first thought was how nice of these guys to come out to help a boater in distress, but then I saw their guns. My boat had floated close enough that I could hear the words they yelled at me. 

            “Get away,” yelled the tattooed guy standing in front. “Leave now, before something bad happens.”

“My motor is broken.” I pointed to the lower unit. “I need a tow.”

“That’s not my problem. You’re trespassing.”

My boat was still about fifteen feet from their dock, so I knew I wasn't

trespassing, but the tattooed guy didn’t look like he was open to a discussion on that point. I let it go. I had floated close enough that they got a pole with a hook and pulled me in until I bumped the dock. Well. I guess I’m trespassing now unless I’m a guest because they pulled me to the dock. Probably, a moot point I don’t need to bring up.

            “If I could get a tow I’d be out of your hair . . .” Crap, he’s bald. “way, I mean way.” Nice save, doofus.

            “Want me to take care of him, Boss?” A muscle-bound underling said. 

            “No, go inside and see if the big boss needs a new anchor.” Tattoo guy laughed. “I’ll take care of our guest.” He reached down and grabbed my bowline. 

            Anchor? No, No. A guest. Yesss, that’s much better. I need to say something.

            I smiled. “A guest . . . Thanks and for your help as well.”

            “Step out of the boat.” He tied the rope to the cleat. “You’re not a guest. Sit, don’t move, and feel free to shut up.”

            He walked over to the boathouse and stepped inside. I heard a motor start and saw a boat back out. He pulled around to the side of the johnboat.

            “Get in your boat.” Then he threw a rope to me. “Tie this to your bow.” 

            Thank God he was going to help me. “I’m Clint, thanks.”

            “Tats, it’s your lucky day.”

            Is that his name, Tats?  “I’m ready . . . Tats, thanks again.”

            “Aren’t you going to untie the dock line?” 

            “Oh, yeah!” Nervous laugh. “That’s a good idea.”

            He towed my boat over to the marina, about two miles away. I was feeling more comfortable now that we were on common ground. I tied my boat up and jumped out to let the attendant know the repairs I needed on the engine. Tats waited at the dock. I returned after my conversation to thank him once more when he told me to jump in the boat.  

            “Jump in, I’ll drop you off at your place.” He threw me a lifejacket.

            “You’ve done enough. I can make it home from here.”

            “GET IN.”

            It’s hard to politely turn down a ride from a guy with a skull tattooed on one bicep and a bloody dagger on the other. “Okay, sounds great.”

            I got in the boat and attempted to make conversation. “Boy, that was a hairy ex. . . Crap, I did it again. Nooo! . . . crazy experience for me today.”

            I saw his lip twist into a small grin. “I’m bald, been that way for a long time.”

            On our trip back to my place, “A Little Bit of Heaven,” Tats pointed out a few fishing holes he’d heard were good spots. He dropped me off at my dock and suggested that I spend more time fishing on this side of the lake. I told him that was an excellent idea and invited him to share my fresh catch, but he declined.

            I didn’t sleep well that night but not because I was afraid. I was surprised that this big bulky dude was so well spoken. He was funny and friendly, in a rough sort of way.

I never saw him again, but over the next few months, I heard rumors about the drug gang, their leader Justice and Tats. The stories of their escapades were chilling. No surprise considering the business they were conducting. The reputation of Justice was the very definition of evil. He had no remorse. Tats was different, as were the rumors about him. He was tough but known to have a heart especially for kids and senior citizens.

            The bigger shock was the stories about a philanthropist who gave money to schools and hospitals. No one knew much about him since all his donations were anonymous. Each donation came with the message “Treasure All That’s Sacred,” always written in the same manner. It’s hard to know what to believe. It’s up to you to decide, but I’ve learned not to trust first impressions.

Dangerous Relaxation

 This story received an honorable mention in a 2018 fiction contest
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      I knew very few neighbors, although they knew of me. Most of my neighbors were permanent residents. I was just a visitor and referred to as a Weekender. The tag was not complimentary. The permanents kept track of the casual residents. They didn't like changes, and they were quick to let you know if you tried to topple an established tradition. I did that once and got the cold shoulder that still prevails today.

     It was early morning. Dew was still on the grass. Once a month I took a weekend trip to my cabin to unwind. I stayed there alone, hiked through the forest, and chopped wood for the stove. Physical activity helped me de-stress. I spent the rest of the day reading a little and preparing meals while listening to my favorite tunes from the 60s. Tomorrow I would start the construction.

     In this county, you can own property, but that doesn’t mean you can change it willy-nilly. It’s more than bi-laws or codes. Tradition is the opposing force against change. I followed all the proper channels and got the necessary permits to erect a new entrance to my property, Straten’s Ranch. Once I started construction a few of the locals stopped by and offered a stern warning about making the changes. My first thought was they were joking, but days later I learned differently when my newly constructed entrance burned to the ground. Of course, no one saw anything or knew how this could have happened. 

     It had been a dry summer, so maybe it started by a spark from someone’s tractor or a lit cigarette butt thrown from a passing car. No reason to blame the locals, just bad luck. I waited until the fall when it wasn’t too dry to start the reconstruction of my new entrance. Then it happened again, a second fire that not only destroyed the entrance but three acres of my property including the honeysuckle vines, before the fire finally burned itself out. It didn’t take a seasoned sleuth to figure out this wasn’t an accident. The report filed was a waste of time, like watching a foreign movie without subtitles. 

     I learned to live with the old entrance and avoided the neighbors. Then one day I had unexpected visitors, two locals, one tall, lean guy and one short and stocky. I was cutting down a dead tree for firewood when they strolled up and asked what I was doing?

     “Isn’t it obvious?” I set the chainsaw down. “I know a crosscut saw is more traditional, but this is faster.”

     “We aren’t concerned about your choice of tools.” The tall guy commented. “Just wondering if you’re building anything.”

      “Yes . . . a fire.” I looked directly at the tall, lean guy. "You should be familiar with fires, right?”

     “I’m not sure what you mean. Are you accusing us of something?” The tall guy folded his arms. “That’s not very neighborly. You need to try to fit in. You know, do things the right way, our way. Like they’ve always been done. Remember you’re just a Weekender.”

     “How could I forget.” I reached down to pick up the chainsaw. “Is there something else you want? As you can see I’m sort of busy. If there’s nothing else, you can go.”

     The locals looked at each other then at me. “No, there’s nothing else. We just wanted to pay you a visit.” They turned and walked away. The tall guy stopped and yelled over his shoulder. “Be careful with that chainsaw, they can be dangerous.”

     I pulled the cord to start the saw, then mumbled to myself. “Thanks for the sage advice, numbnuts.”
     After another hour I finished cutting wood and went back into my cabin to listen to some relaxing music and have my favorite stout beer from The Spitting Monkey Brewery. Downing three stouts relaxed me. The recent encounter with the permanents was long forgotten. I started to dose when I heard a noise coming from outside. Then another sound, this one was near the woodpile. My first thought was raccoons or deer, but my curiosity made me get up and look. My muscles ached from the long day of sawing and splitting wood. As I peered out the window, I could see a beam of light in the yard.  My assumption that raccoons and deer had created the disturbance was wrong. 

     There was a shotgun over the fireplace. It had been there for years, but I never used it. Hell, I didn’t even know if there were any shells in the house. I decided that carrying an unloaded shotgun was just plain stupid, so I left it. I grabbed a flashlight and ax handle that was sitting by the door and made a noisy exit. I wanted the intruders to hear me and make a quick getaway. I didn’t want a confrontation, just a little peace, and quiet. I pointed my tactical high-beam light toward the woodpile. Three heads popped up and immediately scattered into the woods, two with flashlights guided the way.

     Who were they and what were they up too? Teenagers, I hoped, just doing what bored teenagers do, mischievous little bastards. I walked down to the stack of wood I had just cut and looked around for some disturbance. They had been digging a hole, which wasn’t a big deal. What most upset me was the pack of matches I found. Three burned out matches lay on the ground. There was a name on the matchbook cover, Willard’s Feed Store. I’d been there a few times. I’ll make a point to stop by tomorrow. I walked back to the cabin confident that they wouldn’t be back tonight.

* * *

     It was seven when I woke the next morning. Late for me but the beer helped. I made a pot of coffee, strong black coffee. That’s all I ever drank in the morning. No fancy creamer or sugar substitute, just hot, strong black coffee. I walked outside and headed to the woodpile to see if I missed anything last night. I did. Well, I can’t be sure it was from last night, but I don’t remember seeing it before. Sitting next to a stack of firewood was an emblem that came off someone’s belt, boot or jacket. It was a masked skull wearing a cowboy hat with two crossed pistols. Could be a gang symbol. That’s what I thought. This was something worth looking in to.

     I hopped in the old Ford pickup kept on the farm and drove into town to visit Willard’s Feed Store. I took the matches and the skull emblem. I needed to get some supplies and decided to pick up some shotgun shells as well. 

     Willard was manning the register, and a clerk was tending to another customer. I didn't need to introduce myself. He tipped his Stetson and asked what I needed.

     “I need to reseed a few acres.” I folded my arms. “I had a fire a couple of nights ago . . . burned three acres.”

     “Heard about that.” He tugged on his suspenders. “That’s real unfortunate.”

     “Need some 12 gauge shotgun shells too.”

     “Whatcha hunting?”

     “Saw some varmints last night.” I tossed the pack of matches on the counter. “Never know when they may come back.”

     Willard looked at the pack. “I haven’t had those in years. Stopped giving them out when they came out with those Butane lighters.” He laughed, “I didn’t think anyone used matches anymore.”

     “Some people are old school.”

     “Seeds over there.” Willard pointed to the back of the store. “I’ll get the shells.”

     “I’ll take two fifty-pound bags of seed and the shells.” I picked up the matches and pulled out the skull emblem. “Does this look familiar?” I held it up to his eye.

Willard hesitated and then said. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen that before. Where’d you get it?”

     “Over by my woodpile where I saw the varmints.”

     Willard shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, but I can’t help you with that.”

     I paid for the seeds and shells and headed out the door with my purchase. As I drove home, I pulled into a Huck's gas station to top off the tank. While filling up, I noticed three teenagers on the side of the station. Two were taunting the third by lighting and throwing matches at him. He jumped and twisted trying to avoid the flying flames. The two laughed and called him a sissy. The victim yelled, "Stop it. It's not funny . . . jerks.” 

     One of the match-throwers lit the whole pack and threw it, hitting the kid on the leg. I stopped pumping gas and walked over to the kids. 

     “Hey dumbass! Are you brain dead?” Both of the kids with matches just looked at me dumbfounded. 

     “Huh!” the tall, gangly one said.

     I walked over and grabbed the remaining pack of matches. “First of all. This is a gas station. Didn’t anyone ever tell you throwing lit matches around near a gas pump is stupid as hell?”

     “We’re just having fun.”

     “Really! Let me ask the other kid how much fun he was having.” I pointed at the third kid and said. “Were you having fun?”

     “No. I was scared.” He answered.

     “Secondly, doing that to someone is harassment, which could get you into trouble.”

Willard’s Feed Store printed on the cover. Hum! “Where did you get these matches?”

     “My dad’s got a shitload of these matches at his store. He gives them out to customers. Well locals, not Weekenders.” 

     “Like me?”

     “Yeah, you’re no local, that’s for sure.”

     “Get out of here.” I motioned down the road.

     “Can I have the matches back?”

     “No, go get some from your dad, remember he’s got a shitload in his store.”

     I walked away knowing that they learned nothing from our encounter. Teenagers didn’t learn by advice. They learned only by failure. I hoped their failures wouldn’t be their demise. 

     My first thought, go back to Willard’s and confront him. But that wasn’t necessary. His scatter-brained son would deliver the message.

* * *

     Willard’s kid, the tall, lanky one, returned to the store to get more matches and told his dad about the incident with the Weekender. There was no doubt who the kid was talking about. Willard chased his son away, telling him to keep out of trouble. Then he set up a meeting with the few remaining members of the cowboy crew at the local bar. They needed a permanent solution for this Weekender.

     The kid grumbled and whined then left, kicking rocks in the parking lot to show he was upset. He came back late that night with two buddies when the store was closed. They slipped in the back door hunting for mischief. They found it. The matches were kept in the back of the store, near some old forgotten dynamite. Kids will be kids especially the dumb ones. They started playing the stupid match game, tossing the matches at each other. 

     The shelves were made of wood, dry wood, easy to ignite. I guess I don't need to say much more. A fire started and spread quickly. The kids got out just before the explosion. There was nothing that the fire department could do but clean up afterward. Most everything burned, but they did find the charred remains of a club charter from a local gang The Real Cowboys. 

* * *

     The club had a dark history that originated twenty years ago. The charter listed Willard as the leader of the gang. Everyone suspected it, but no one knew for sure until now. Minutes from some of the meetings were also found that documented many of the crimes the Cowboys committed. It was enough to bring the remaining Cowboys up on charges. Willard was arrested on the spot.

     Karma struck back with a vengeance. With no imminent threat left, I rebuilt my entrance sign but changed the name of the property.  I proudly called it, The Weekender.

Message from the Heart

This was a second-place winner in a 2018 flash fiction contest

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     Ted stepped off the curb on to State Street, running late as usual. The traffic was light. A strong wind swirled the leaves and trash around forming a miniature funnel on the sidewalk. His sister, Merci would be on time, it was her nature.  She felt being late was an insult. Ted was rarely on time. Something always distracted him; today it was text messages. His tardiness annoyed Merci, something she did her best to ignore. The worry wrinkles in her forehead said otherwise.

     His laissez-faire attitude hampered his success in business and life. His sister’s promptness helped her succeed. Merci always looked at life from the serious side, Ted on the other hand, treated life like a never-ending party. Their differences caused friction, but Ted’s light-hearted personality made her laugh whenever things got tense at family gatherings. Thanksgiving his job was to bring potatoes. He brought Vodka, called it liquid potatoes.

*** 

     Late again, Merci rubbed her temple, even though she told him to be here a half-hour earlier than he needed to be. It’s uncanny how he knows when I’ve given him a false meeting time. He’ll be late to his own funeral. It’s a cliché, I know, but in his case it’s true.

     “What’s your excuse today?” Merci grimaced.

     “I could tell you a lie or tell the truth,” Ted said with a twinkle in his eye.

     “How would I know the difference?” 

     “Feisty today, are we?” Ted asked. “You know, I love you. The favorite of all my siblings.”

     “That’s special since I’m your only sibling.”

     “So, why are we meeting today?” Ted pinched her cheek.

     She batted his hand away. “Its Mom, she’s getting worse.”

     “She’s Eighty-eight, no one gets better at that age.”

     “You’re exasperating. You know what I mean,” Merci said. “Her memory ... she hardly recognizes me anymore.”

     “Stop changing your hair color.”

     “Not funny, Ted,” Merci said. “Can’t you be serious for a minute?”

     “How will that help?” Ted continued. “It won’t change the diagnosis.”

     “There has to be something we can do.”

     “You’re right, there is.”

     “Like what, genius?” Merci challenged.

     “Visit her … make her smile, make her laugh,” Ted answered. “It’s not about the past, the lost memories. It’s about now, making each day in her life fun. She may not remember it, but you will. She may not recognize you, but she’ll enjoy the visits.”

     “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve always been the fun one,” Merci admitted. “I’m the problem solver.”

     “So, here’s the problem,” Ted said. “What’s best for Mom? Make the rest of her life fun or frustrate her by trying to resurrect lost memories?” 

     “Damn you, Ted. Just when I expect you to disappoint me, you surprise me and say something smart.”

     “Not to worry. There’ll be many more chances,” Ted laughed. “You’re buying lunch, right?”

     “Yes, as always … loser.” She grinned.

     Ted laughed as he waved to the waiter.  “A bottle of your finest Bordeaux.” 

Onions and Pickles

I hate onions, especially raw onions, sometimes on burgers. The only redeeming factor is that they can easily be removed and tossed in the trash we’re they belong. I don’t mind the flavor they give the dish but I just don’t like the texture. If the onions are cooked until they soften then I can deal with them as long as they are cut into small pieces, minuscule.

I’ve met people who love onions, absolutely love them. I am not that person, of course you already know that now that you’ve read this far.

I like pickles. I like them on sandwiches or on the side. My friend John hates them as much as I hate onions. But despite this difference we remain friends. It’s pretty unusual in this day and age with our drastic difference in food preferences that we can still be friends. That may seem like a silly comment, but the truth is there are less significant differences that have driven people apart.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could ignore our differences and focus on the positive things in others. “Just Saying . . .?”

The Never-Ending List

On Saturday afternoon a mundane task turned into an event. My wife handed me a four-item shopping list.

“ Darlin, can you go to the store for me? I need a few items for the recipe.” My wife smiled. “I don’t have the time.” 

“Well, Of course, Sugar. Can’t resist that beautiful smile.”

She handed me the list then said, "Don't buy any more beer or wine. We have more than enough." That’s what she always told me, but I never listened. “And don’t dally, we have a lot to do before our guests arrive.”

"Yes Hun," I responded, knowing full well I would be returning with a new craft brew or Napa Cab. She knew this too. It was a game we played, but we each had our own set of rules. 

I knew there were always bargains to be found in the liquor department. My wife was unaware of this fact. Discovering an obscure craft beer or reserve vintage wine made the trip worth my time.

I drove to the Piggly Wiggly about three miles from our house. If you told someone from a northern state, you shopped for groceries at Piggly Wiggly, they would consider you unsophisticated. It’s true. The store’s name seems childish, like a three-year-old named it, but I'm from the South, so I didn’t matter. 

The parking lot was full, which didn’t bother me. I had a habit of parking a fair distance away from the entrance. It was important to me to avoid dents and dings from free-roaming shopping carts and the random door swings of adjacent cars. 

A little voice in the back of my mind kept saying, Don’t dally. I started to argue with that thought. I was being conscientious not dallying, but it didn’t seem worth the effort to argue or explain my position to a random thought.

            I quick-stepped walked to the store entrance. Patiently slowing or stopping for drivers pulling in and out of the spaces. My main job now was to reach the store entrance unscathed. Sounds easier than it is. Screaming kids, cell phones and pressing issues on their minds are all distractions to drivers. 

This is the South and we have a lot of thoughts occupying our brains. We love fried chicken, grits, outdoor grilling, grits, sweet tea, Christmas tamales, grits, buttermilk biscuits with gravy, breakfast tacos, grits, pecan pie, cowboy boots and line dancing just to name a few things. You may have noticed almost everything on the list is food. Did I mention grits? We have traditions that have been around for decades and we have no inclination to explain. 

When I entered the store, I headed straight for the liquor aisle to check out any deals. I was browsing at the high-dollar wines, something I always do. I hoped the clerk had marked a ninety-dollar Cabernet down to nine dollars, but that was never the case.

Someday I’ll find one that’s mismarked, but it wouldn’t be today. I picked up two bottles of another Cab more reasonably priced. The second Cab was a backup bottle. You always need a backup. Then, the little voice returned with a warning, Don't buy any more beer or wine, but I still grabbed two six-packs of Turkey Trot Mississippi brown craft beer. I placed them in my basket and took my shopping list out. 

James tapped me on the shoulder. "Y’all want me to bring some homebrew over tonight?" 

            “Is that the disgusting tar-based swill you gave me a few weeks ago?” 

            “The very same.” James laughed.

            “Well, of course. That was . . . tasty.” I noticed James with a bottle of whiskey in his basket. “Store bought?”

            “Yes, Southern Comfort. Sometimes I splurge.”

            “Janis Joplin’s favorite. Well . . . her and Bobby McGee.”

            James smiled. “She did know her whiskey.”

            “Bring that by tonight. I’ll help you with it.”

            “Not on your life.” James shook his head. ”You makin’ those rock-hard, dog ass biscuits for the chili?”

            “Absolutely, they also go well with that crappy, tar beer you’re bringing.”

            “All right, see you tonight.” James turned to walk away. “Hey, they got some good looking corn over in the produce section, since you’re shopping.”

“On the cob. Right? Not that packaged stuff.”

“Hell, yeah. Is there any other kind? It’s that fresh, sweet, white corn, two ears for a dollar.”

“Thanks, I’m not supposed to dilly dally,” I pushed my buggy down the aisle, then turned my head and yelled to James, “ but I’m not really shopping, just picking up a few items for the party.” 

            I wandered over to the spice aisle and picked up what I read on the list. No matter what I bought, there were always a few items that ended up being the wrong brand, size or color. I was destined to fail whenever I attempted to fulfill my wife's shopping list. I penciled in wine and beer on the list just to make my first purchase legit.  

On the way to pick up fresh vegetables, I passed by the seafood section. Well! I didn’t actually pass, it was more like I lingered, which not at all like dallying. They had a new batch of prawns or shrimp to some. There's a difference. Prawns are bigger, but the taste is pretty much the same as shrimp. I love shrimp and grits. I decided to get a couple of pounds plus a pound of crawfish. There’s nothing more Southern than a crawfish boil. I added them to the list. 

We might be low on barbeque sauce. It would be a sin if we ran out. I’d better get a few bottles. It’s on the list. I made it over to the vegetable section. I fingered the list-peppers, cilantro, and basil. Hmm! What color peppers, red, yellow or green? I’ll get some of each. She’ll be pleased with my innovation and decision-making skills.

I grabbed an ear of corn and pulled back the shucks. James was right, these looked good. I grabbed six. I hate these flimsy plastic bags they have for produce. They're hard to open, and the corn drops right through them. Useless.

I wondered why they called them ears of corn. Google would know the answer, but I’m not supposed to dally, so I’ll check later. Walking toward the checkout, I grabbed three lemons. They’re used with everything – like bacon. Oh! That's another item I should get. I added corn, lemons, and bacon to the list. 

Ice, I need to get ice. Every party I’ve ever been to runs short on ice. One bag or two?  Two, we’ll need two. . . large bags. I should have picked it up when I got the beer. No, this is better. It might have melted, good decision. I wrote it down. Bacon was in the cooler next to the ice. That's a lucky break. No need to search for it. Two pounds should do it.

Time to check out. No need to dally. This took a lot longer than I expected. It was James, he slowed me down with all the chit chat.

As I stood in line, I wondered if I needed more beer. I should have gotten a case. Now the little voice sounded more like my wife. We have more than enough.

I looked at the checker, “I’ll be back in a jiffy.” I sprinted to the liquor aisle and picked up a case of Mud Dauber Black Gold. I’ve had it before. I didn’t want to take a chance with a full case of Turkey Trot Mississippi brown. I made it back to the checkout just before my last item was scanned. I grabbed a bag of M&M’s, the healthy ones with nuts and threw them on the conveyor belt next to the case of beer. The checker looked a little agitated, so I felt the need to explain my last purchase. 

“Chocolate gives me an energy boost and the nuts . . . well, they're healthy."

“Healthy?” he questioned.

“Healthyish.” I held my hands out like I had just turned water into wine, then added M&M’s to the list.

“Do you have a senior discount?”

“Yes, but you have to be sixty-five.” The clerk eyed me up and down. “How old are you?”

“Fifty-five.”

“So, not a senior.”

“Some places consider age fifty-five as a senior.”

"Sorry we don't, and senior discounts don’t apply to alcohol which would negate the majority of your purchase.”

            “Hey, be nice.” I noticed the roses by the checkout, an impulse item. “Add one of these to the total. It’s for my wife.”

            “No kidding,” the clerk commented. “Do you think a rose will make up for the wine and all the beer you’ve bought?” 

            “It’s a red rose.”

            “Thanks, I know most colors.”

They bagged my groceries. I paid, then wheeled my bounty out the door. Just as I crossed over the threshold to the parking lot, I caught the enticing scent of barbeque. I couldn’t believe my nose, but it never failed me in the past. I spotted a guy grilling BBQ ribs next to the cart corral. I asked what was going on. He said the store held barbeques twice a month and sold the ribs for ten dollars a slab. What a great idea and a great price as well. They’re already cooked. All I had to do was heat them up. I couldn't pass this up. The list had grown. There was no more space on the front side of the shopping list, so I flipped it over and added the ribs as the first item on the back.  

I was feeling confident on the drive home. I got some great bargains. I pulled in to the subdivision, and there were two young girls selling lemonade for charity. I stopped and got a glass and gave them a big tip. I paid cash, so no need to add this to the list. 

            I noticed my wife looked frazzled when I walked in. “It’s about time. What took you so long? You’re as slow as molasses in the wintertime.”

            “It was a pretty long list, but I got everything on it.”

            “It wasn’t long when I gave it to you. It only had four items on it.”

            “Four, you mean fourteen.” I waved her over. “Hey! These bags are heavy. Do you want to help me bring them in?”

            “Can’t you handle it? I’m busier than ants at a picnic.”

“Of course! Look! I bought you a rose.”

“Thanks. How much beer and wine did you buy?”

“It’s a . . . red rose.”

A Night to Remember

The building rocked, windows shattered and people panicked. An explosion. Mass panic was not unusual with the many terror attacks in 2018. But, first, let's step back to explain how the evening began.

It was boy’s night out, something I did with my college buddies once a month. We’d grab a few beers, and throw darts or play pool at the local sports bar, nothing dangerous or even adventurous ever happened. Our group had gotten smaller with people taking jobs in other cities and growing families. That night there were four of us, Benny, Tomàss (Thomas really but he thought Tomàss sounded upper class), Carl and me, Steve. That night I told Tomàss to call me Stefan just to give him a hard time.

            Boy’s night was a lame attempt to hold onto our youth. It was always at Juan Carlos O’Kelly’s, the Mexican restaurant with an Irish themed sports bar. They were well-known for the Irish tacos with cabbage and shredded corned beef. It doesn’t sound like a great combination but it was great with a Guinness or Corona. 

            We were playing darts when Sally, our waitress, brought the food. The game didn’t stop when the food arrived. She set the plates on a table next to our beers. We ate, drank and threw darts, taunting each other like high school kids. 

            “Benny, you throw like a girl.” Carl laughed.

            “Like … Wonder Woman.” Benny twirled the dart like a baton. 

            “Stop performing and throw the dart, Jackass.” Tomàss washed down the last bite of taco with his Guinness.

            “It’s Sir Jackass … Tomàss.” Benny threw his second dart and missed the board.

            “You’d make Wonder Woman weep.” Carl picked up his beer.

            Halfway through our match and munchies Tomàss stumble walked to the head, bumping into tables and knocking a women’s drink over. Not cool, a low-classmove forTomàss.Benny and Carl went out back for a smoke. I sat by myself when the night turned into an unexpected adventure. 

            It was hard to tell where the blast occurred. There was damage to the building but not like you would expect if a bomb were inside. Tomàss rushed out of the men’s room yelling my name. Seems funny how a traumatic event can sober you up instantly. Funny’s not the right word, but it works. 

            “Steve, where are you? It’s Tom.” He screamed. 

            “Over here, by the bar.” The pretentious use of Tomàss was gone.

“Are you alright?” He kicked a chair out of the aisle.

            “Yes.” I pushed a ceiling tile off the table. “Benny and Carl went out back for a smoke.”

            “We need to check on them.”

            “You’re right. Let’s go.”

            We carefully made our way toward the back door. It wasn’t far but the clutter from overturned tables and the panicked people slowed us down. It was a blessing for us since a second explosion coming from the back parking lot blew the back door off its hinges. Debris was scattered everywhere. This was anything but a blessing for Benny and Carl.

            Sirens blared. Help was on the way. The smoke-filled bar made it hard to see and breathe. We didn't know if the building was on fire, but we knew we had to find a way out. Was there another bomb? I hoped not, but I didn’t know.

            I looked at Tom. “We need to get out of here, now.”

            We helped each other to our feet and made it the rest of the way to the back door, not knowing what to expect. People blocked the doorway, pushing and shoving each other to escape. Everyone was in survival mode. Tom and I headed for a window that was blown out. I grabbed a chair leg and used it to knock out the shards of glass still left in the window frame. Once we climbed through to safety, others followed. Safety might be a poor choice of words. Safe is relative to the situation.

            Once outside, we saw the destruction, likea war zone. Vehicle parts were strewn around the parking lot like a junkyard. But, the biggest surprise was the money floating through the air like confetti. People who escaped the restaurant changed from survival mode to scavenger mode, running wildly to snatch as much of the free money as possible. 

            Tom looked around, then shook his head. “Let’s go around back to check on Benny and Carl.”

            I could see the damaged armored bank truck overturned and had a gaping hole in the side. People were climbing over the injured to reach the truck and the money inside. Fights were breaking out.

            Weaving our way through the crowd we made it to the back lot just as the police arrived. They came to help the injured but now were faced with looters as well.

            It was mass hysteria-bloodied bodies, looters pushing and shoving and the police trying to maintain control. We searched the parking lot as best we could, but found no sign of Benny or Carl. In a matter of minutes the police, EMT’s, and firefighters had things under control. The cops had corralled the looters; EMT’s were attending to the injured and the firefighters doing their thing. Neither, Benny or Carl answered their cell phones, so we had noother choice but to check with the local hospitals. This could go onall night.

            We had decided that we would split up and go to different hospitals. When I turned around to leave, I noticed a guy runaround the side of a building. It looked like Carl. I couldn’t be sure, but the jacket he wore was distinctive with a Spirits of St. Louis logo on the back. They were a defunct basketball team from the ABA. It was from his father’s obscure sports memorabilia collection. I doubted that there were more than a handful left. It had to be him.

            Tom had already taken off to check local hospitals, but couldn’t leave. I needed to find out why he was running. Maybe it wasn’t him, but the one other guy on the planet that wore the same jacket and happened to be in the same place as Carl. I took off chasing him. He was well ahead of me, I could see him turn left at a corner by Bailey's Range. By the time I got to the corner, he was gone. 

I continued running. I looked down alleys and streets trying to spot him. At the second alley, I saw the jacket thrown over a dumpster. I rushed down the alley and picked it up. Carl’s name, C Bradshaw, was written in the liner. I was baffled; he loved this jacket. Why would he throwit away? Something strange was going on.

I started to leave but then spotted a hundred dollar bill on the ground, then another about ten feet farther down the alley. My guess was cash from the armored truck. The jacket was worth more than two hundred dollars. Did Carl have financial troubles? Was Benny with him? I decided to follow the money trail to see where it led. Could this be a crime of opportunity? Itdidn’t seem like something Carl would do.

My cell phone rang. It was Tom.

“Hey, I found Benny. He’s at St. Alexius. He has minorinjuries, but he’ll be fine.”

“Great! Will he have to stay in the hospital?”

“No, he’ll be released shortly. I’ll wait for him. Did you find Carl?”

“No, he’s disappeared. I thought I caught a glimpse ofhim, but I couldn’t catch up, so I’m not really sure it. I found his jacket on a dumpster. Crazy. He loved that thing.”

“You’re right, that makes no sense. Let me talk to Benny to see if he knows what happened to him. I’ll call you back if I find out anything.” Tom hung up.

Standing in the alley, I threw the jacket over my shoulder then turned to walk down the street. I nearly got run over by Carl as he rode past on a Lime bike. 

He yelled, “Get out now before it’s too late.” Then he tossed out handfuls of cash. They floated to the ground like snowflakes.

The ringing phone startled me. “Steve, it’s Carl. We need to talk.”

“Where are you? What the hell’s going on?”

“You know where the Eat-Rite Diner is on Chouteau?” Carl asked.

“Yes, I’m close.”

“I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes. I’ll explain everything.”

Carl was at the booth when I arrived at the diner. I slid into the seat across from him.

I thrust the jacket toward him. “What’s going on and don’t lie? “

“That’s not mine.” He said.

With a smug look, I pointed to C. Bradshaw, written in bold black letters in the liner. “It’s got your name in it.” My fist banged the table. “How many people named C. Bradshaw own a jacket like this?”

“Two that I know of … me and my twin brother Craig.”

“Twin brother?” A shiver went up my spine. “I’ve known you since we were freshman in college. That’s ten years ago. You’ve never mentioned a brother.”

“It’s a long story.” 

“I’ve got time.”

“My brother started hanging out with a bad crowd in high school. We went to different

colleges. He continued his bad behavior and got kicked out and never returned home. Craig was always looking for easy money, so he took to running scams. I sent him money from time to time over the last ten years to get him out of trouble, but I recently cut him off.” 

“Does this have something to do with the explosion and the armored truck?” I asked.

"I suspect he's involved. I just don't know how. But thereal problem is that 

I’ll be blamed. He’s vengeful and likes to create a disturbance.”

            "I saw you … er … Craig passes me on a Lime bike, throwing hundred dollar bills inthe air. Is that what you mean by causing a disturbance?”

“Exactly. I’m sure he’s been photographed by dozens of smartphones. His face is my face, so that’s bad for me.” Carl pointed to the TV.  Police had a suspect they wanted to question. It was a picture of Craig riding a bike tossing money in the air, and identified as Carl Bradshaw.

            Steve looked at Carl. “This isn’t good.”

“Now that my … his … that photo is on the news. He's going to drive away making

me the suspect. That’s what he does.” Carl rubbed his forehead. “But there’s more.” 

            “More? Holy crap, what else could there be?”

            “He came into town to ask for money. He was pissed when I turned him down. Without him knowing I put a tracker on his belt buckle. I know where he is. I need to get him before he leaves town, but I’ll need help.”

            “Let me call Tom and Benny.”

            "Thanks, we made need them. Craig's smart, but he has a routine. I know what it is. Here's what we'll do …" 

We all met at the 7-Eleven on Southwest Avenue. “Craig always stops for a Big Gulp. It will be either here or Gravois. Steve and I will go to Gravois. Call if you see him.”

            Benny looked puzzled. “Wait! How will we recognize him?”

“Huh! He’s my twin … look for me.”

Tom shook his head. “Benny, you’re sharp as a bowling ball.”

We tracked Craig to Gravois, and thankfully a cop was there getting coffee. Steve pointed him out to the officer. He was immediately recognized and cuffed. 

No one expects to be taken down because of a Big Gulp.

Later in his apartment, Carl smiled as he sat and counted a stack of crisp hundreds. He hoisted a cold Bud and laughed at how he finally got revenge on Craig for a lifetime of dirty tricks, even his friends were clueless. 

Knock, knock. “Open up, it’s the police.”