Dylan Gallagher knew that the closer a man got to forty, the more he pondered the great questions of life; such as, is there a God? What's man's true place in the universe? And what the hell is azodicarbonamide and what exactly will it do to my colon? This just happened to be the particular question Dylan was pondering as he stood in line at the Seven-Eleven, reading the ingredients of a pre-packaged ham sandwich. These thoughts weighed heavily on Dylan because his fortieth birthday was now twenty three days, four hours and fifty-five minutes away. But then, who was counting.
It wasn’t that Dylan had really let himself go, he still weighed a little under two hundred pounds but that wasn't bad for six-two. He was a good athlete, though he never was much for organized sports. He still had his hair. Well, most of it. He assumed he was still attractive, well, nobody fainted, and he had a job that required physical exertion so he was getting his exercise. It was just that it was, well...forty.
Dylan looked at the can of Diet Coke in his hand. Didn’t he hear somewhere that the artificial sweetener in diet drinks caused brain tumors? Keep the weight off or brain tumors? Everything in life had become a tradeoff. Dylan finally reached the counter and asked the bleached blond kid who stood behind it if the store carried any fruit. The kid stared at him for a long time, his mouth open as if his nasal passages had been glued shut, and then finally offered, “Fruit pies.”
Dylan stared at the kid and then finally shrugged and grabbed two. What the hell was Locust Bean Gum? Dylan couldn’t help looking at the ingredients any more than he could help noticing the surveillance camera, not the fake one above the counter, but the real one behind the ATM machine. He couldn’t help noticing the height measure painted on the front door frame or the fact that the deposit safe behind the kid was unlocked. Dylan looked at the mouth-breather, who might as well have had a sign stapled to his forehead that said, ‘rob me’, and then sighed and massaged his aching head. He added a bottle of Excedrin to his order. They sure as hell weren’t making this any easier on him.
***************
"They whistle."
It wasn’t really a question, it was more like a flat statement of disbelief. Dave Gruening swirled the ice around the bottom of his third vodka and Coke and looked nervously at his brother Johnny across the table. “That's the point, George," Dave said.
"What point?" George Esterkamp asked, his red polka-dot bow tie bouncing up and down under his protruding Adam’s apple. Dave shot another pleading look at his brother.
Johnny Gruening seemed oblivious to the conversation, smiling and gazing out the large plate glass window of the club. It was only ten-fifteen in the morning but already he could see the heat rippling off the streets, disappearing into the moist, stagnant air. He watched as a barge slowly made its way down the Ohio River heading for St. Louis or maybe New Orleans. New Orleans. Now there was a town. Mardi gras, Jambalaya, laissez les bons temps rouler. Let the good times roll. Of course, Johnny had never been to New Orleans. But that didn’t stop him from picturing himself at the rail of the barge, riding the river like a modern day Mark Twain, holding George Esterkamp’s head under the water with a boating pole and watching his bow tie bob up and down as he swallowed three hundred gallons of tasty river water.
That’s why Johnny was smiling.
Unfortunately, the Gruening boys needed George Esterkamp. They needed this deal. They needed it bad. Johnny reluctantly pulled himself back to reality and turned to George.
"It's a calling card, George," he said.
George looked at the brothers as if they were nuts. Which just happened to be exactly what he thought.
"Calling cards? Since when do you need calling cards for a goddamn gym shoe?"
"Jesus, George, not a gym shoe! It’s 1999. Nobody’s called them gym shoes since the fifties!" Dave said.
“Is that right?” George asked dryly.
"Absolutely! You got to get with the program here,” Dave said, chewing on an ice cube. “We're talking about today’s shoes. Running shoes, walking shoes, basketball shoes, cross-trainers. We're talking athletic footwear!" He shook lose another ice cube from his glass and crunched it to emphasize his point.
"A gym shoe," George deadpanned, giving him a look. He turned and gave the look to Johnny. "That whistles."
Which, basically, was true. When an average sized kid stomped down on the ball of his shoe, say like when he was going for that life-defining, Michael Jordan, in your face slam dunk, a mechanism in the shoe triggered a loud, shrill, ear piercing whistle. As the kid soared through the air, the whistling sound started to fade, sounding not unlike the Luftwaffe over Poland. Then, ideally, the whistle came to an end at the exact moment the kid jammed the basketball through the hoop and hung from the rim, grinning down victoriously at mom and his salivating playmates, all of whom were by now dying to buy a pair of shoes just like his.
Ideally.
"Look, George," Johnny explained slowly, "Reebok came out with the AzTrek and the Supreme Control, right? Nike has Air Max2 and the Skylon. Converse came out with that Raw Energy shoe that has a gel in the soles for chrissake and L.A. Gear even has a shoe that lights up! Calling cards, George! That's the business we're in today. We're facing a new millennium. And we're going to be facing it with the new Gruening Athletic Footwear."
George screwed up his face, trying to understand. "The Gruening Athletic Footwear," he said slowly. And then added, "That whistles."
"Not whistle, George," Dave said excitedly. "Gruening Athletic Footwear presents," he raised his hands and flashed them across his own private billboard, reciting reverently, "The Scream."
He smiled at his brother and they both smiled at George, waiting for the simple genius of their creation to hit home.
For such a little guy, George Esterkamp had a huge laugh; big, phlegmy guffaws that bounced off the walls and reverberated around the room. Their fellow diners, most of whom hadn’t looked up from their Wall Street Journals this early in twenty years, were roused by George's snorting and honking and turned to stare at the Gruenings. Johnny fought to keep a convivial look on his face even though his bowels had seized shut, threatening never to reopen. He knew that all eyes were now upon them, judging them, laughing at them. It wasn't fair. He was Johnny Gruening, the entrepreneur, the epitome of a successful businessman, not somebody to be laughed at.
George pounded on the table, gasping for air as he cried, "The Scream! You guys are the scream!"
Johnny desperately wanted to reach over and twist the little fucker's bow tie until his head popped off and bounced into the tray of 'Almost Eggs' on the buffet table. But he knew an act of such violence would be frowned upon here at the Gresham Club. Frowned upon but awkwardly not that uncommon. The Queen City institution had, in its more than a century of existence, been the site of twenty-seven violent deaths, the most recent in 1962 when a Third Circuit Court of Appeals Judge cracked Luther, the old colored waiter, across the head with a heavy, crystal tumbler filled with Scotch. In his defense, the judge had spent the last three weeks listening to an infuriating civil rights case about a bunch of uppity coloreds fighting for the right to play golf with white women. And his young mistress had just happened to up and leave for New York with a colored loan shark from Newport, both of them, no doubt, luxuriating in the brand new Cadillac convertible that the judge had paid cash for. And besides, everybody knew the judge only drank Bourbon.
It was the consensus at the club that the Judge's fellow adjudicators were harsh but fair in their sentencing. The Judge received two years’ probation, he had to pay a five hundred dollar fine (half was paid by the club) and he had to promise to find a better class of mistress.
Well, Johnny wasn't a judge. And besides. This was George's club.
"The Scream," George said as he shook his head one last time. He wiped the tears from his eyes and blew his nose into his cloth napkin. Johnny winced at George’s obvious lack of class. But then what did he expect? You lie down with white trash, you wake up with a velvet painting of the Last Supper. He was surprised George wasn’t picking his toenails at the table. Or at least biting them.
George looked at the brothers and tried to say something but was overcome by a fit of giggles. He held up a finger for them to give him one more moment and then helplessly burst into another round of laughter. Dave’s shoulders slumped as he sighed and sank back in his chair. He held up his empty glass and rattled the remaining ice at the head waiter who ignored him, intent on making sure brother Esterkamp wasn't choking to death on a rogue sausage link or any other liable food group.
Johnny, however, wasn't ready to quit. The day he couldn't handle a George Esterkamp hadn't dawned yet. He leaned forward and dramatically looked around the room, making sure that no one was going to overhear him. It was an obvious ploy, and despite himself, George couldn't help leaning forward to meet him.
"This doesn’t leave the table, okay, George?” he said, again looking around the room. “But I've already talked to several of the local coaches and most are ready to come on board.”
“Really.” Again with the disbelief.
“Come on, George, sports is my wheelhouse. When people think of sports in Cincinnati, you know who they think of? Two people. Pete Rose and Johnny Gruening.”
Dave nodded his head in agreement. George just smiled.
“Once I convince the coaches, once I get two or three of my kids to start wearing these shoes, you know every kid in the city is going to want them!"
By his 'kids', Johnny was referring to his weekly newspaper ads lauding the 'Gruening Brothers Footwear Athlete of the Week.' Each week Johnny would pick a high school player from whatever sport was in season and highlight them in a quarter page ad. The boy or girl got their picture in the paper, Johnny got a bigger picture in the paper, his company got some great P.R. and Johnny got the royal treatment from area high schools. He was invited on the team buses, he sat on the bench with the coaches, he gave advice during games, and he was an honored guest at all the high school sport's banquets in town.
To Johnny this arrangement was pure heaven. Not only was he a dedicated sports fanatic, but, and this was probably more important, Johnny, who’s athletic skills peaked in the tenth grade, got to relive his high school days in perpetuity. All this for the measly price of a newspaper ad and a one hundred dollar donation to the school in the athlete's name. Of course, he was three weeks behind in paying the newspaper and six months behind in paying the schools. But now he had a better prize for the kids than cash. He had 'The Scream.'
"We start slow, get a foothold in the city," Johnny said, warming up to his subject, "and then, BAM! We go state wide. We become the official conference shoe. We expand our product line; hats, jackets, jock straps, you name it! This is just the beginning, George. The sky's the limit. This shoe is a winner!"
"A winner?" George said, barely able to stifle another giggle. "Like the open-toed sling backs you took a bath on last year?"
Fuck! Dave moaned into his glass as he sucked down half of his fresh drink. He locked his watery eyes on his brother. Johnny held fast to his smile as he wondered just how the old shit had found out about that. He showed nothing, turning to George and shrugging casually.
"Actually, we ended up making a modest profit off those shoes," he replied.
"Really?" George asked.
No. Actually they lost a little more than seventy-three thousand dollars. But Johnny was goddamned if he was going to admit that to this pious little prick.
"You know what the problem with you two is?" George pulled his comb out of his shirt pocket and dipped it into his water glass. "You two think you're too good for the work boot business, which just happens to be the business you're in."
Johnny and Dave stared in horror as George shook the excess water off his comb and began to run it through his thin, oily hair.
"That's the business your old man left you," he continued. "Work boots. You forget I was there when he was just starting out, selling steel-toes outta the trunk of his Desoto. He wasn't worried about whether or not some country club assholes thought he was good enough for them, like you two do. He was worried about selling a good quality product. And that product was work boots!" George snapped his comb at Johnny, punctuating his point and spraying Johnny with a fine mist of oily water. "Work boots! Not that frilly-assed footwear you two been trying to peddle the last two years. I was there, I know!"
Johnny discreetly wiped his face with his napkin and looked at his brother’s fallen face. Never say die. He leaned forward.
"Yes. You were there, George. And that's why we came to you first. You’re family, George. We wouldn’t dream of going to strangers on what we know is a gold mine! Dad would never hear of it! George is family! That’s what he always said! Right, Dave?” Dave belched. Johnny paused, building the correct amount of reverence in his voice. "We came to you, and only you, because of Dad. May God rest his soul."
BAM! Right across the bow! Johnny was especially proud of the ‘family’ bit. A brilliant touch. Dave quickly followed his brother’s lead and they both lowered their heads and gazed down at the tablecloth in a touching, silent tribute to their father.
Perfect.
George looked at them and nodded thoughtfully. "I see. So, then, it wasn't you guys talking to Glenn Sohnlein at Top Shoe over in Mt. Healthy?" he asked.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Johnny scrambled to think quickly. “Well..," he started.
"Or Larry Tuerck at Cobbler Shoes in Colerain?" George continued.
Dave groaned and looked out the window. George innocently turned to Johnny.
"What? It wasn't you two who talked to Judy Dalton in Lincoln Heights. Or Rhonda Stern in White Oak? What did they say?"
"Rhonda definitely said maybe," Dave said, turning back quickly.
"Rhonda said no," George corrected. "They all said no." He looked at the brothers and slowly shook his head. "You really think I got to be the third largest shoe retailer in the Tri-state area by not knowing my competition? You know what they say about the shoe business, boys...tongues wag!"
George hooted at his own joke, slamming the table again with his palm and causing the other diners to once again turn and look at Johnny. Johnny’s face burned and his gut lurched but he fought for his composure. Dave just stared at his empty drink.
"I know where you been," George railed, "I know who you talked to. I know you're in hock up to your assholes, I know you haven't got the cash to fill the contracts for work boots that you've somehow managed to keep and I know you got a warehouse full of this worthless ‘Scream’ shit that you can't move! And I know most of all that if your old man," he turned to Johnny sarcastically, "may God rest his soul, were alive to see what you two have done to his company, it would kill him!"
Johnny wordlessly stood up and pulled out his checkbook and his gold pen. George stared at him. "You don't really think they'll take one of your checks here, do you?" he asked, genuinely surprised.
Johnny put the checkbook away and took out his gold money clip from his pants pocket. Dave finally understood what was happening and lurched to his feet next to his brother. Johnny dropped a fifty on the table and slipped the clip back over his money.
"You know why you'll always be in the shoe business, George?" he asked in a tightly controlled voice. "It's because you have no vision. You can't see the future. Well, I can. And you just missed the last spaceship."
George watched with an amused smile as Johnny tucked the money back in his pocket and straightened his suit, marshaling all the dignity he could summon. He turned and walked through the sea of curious diners, his head held high. Dave sucked the ice cubes out of his drink and followed his brother, weaving slightly, crunching loudly, but proud none the less, one of the Gruening brothers.
George watched and waited until Johnny and Dave had almost made it to the door with their remaining dignity intact before he called out for the entire room to hear, "I mean, come on, boys! They fucking whistle!"
*********************
It was way too hot for anyone but the most strung out, pathetically addicted golfer to be out on the golf course. Which explained why they were already four deep at the first hole. The ninety plus percent humidity melted clothes to bodies and made breathing a competition. Dylan didn’t seem to notice. He was eating his lunch under a table umbrella, alone on the wide, rose trimmed patio of the Westwind Country Club. The large club house had been patterned after an old southern plantation mansion, painted white with a rich green trim and set well back from the busy streets by a bank of old, giant eucalyptus trees. The club house and course were built in the early nineteen hundreds in the middle of what, at the time, was farm land and was now, a suburb. In addition to the eighteen holes, there were tennis courts, paddle ball courts and an Olympic sized swimming pool.
Dylan popped his seventh and eighth Excedrin of the day into his mouth and washed them down with the last of his Diet Coke. He leaned his head back into the sun and closed his eyes, waiting for the Excedrin to work, that mild euphoric rush that came when the caffeine kicked in. Though he had only been on the patio for twenty minutes and was wearing just a tee-shirt, shorts and his work boots, he was already covered with a fine sheen of sweat. But he didn’t care. More and more he loved being outside, he just couldn’t get enough of it. Bobby had warned him that the membership frowned on the help using the facilities, i.e., the patio, and Dylan knew that the three sun-blackened, prunish looking old ladies frying themselves at the pool would no doubt complain. But then he also knew that nobody was going to leave the air conditioning to tell him to move. Besides, he’d be done with the job today anyway.
The inside of his eyelids were bright red with the sunlight and Dylan could feel the heat lasering through his eyes and draining the pressure in his head. After about five minutes, he lowered his head and reluctantly opened his eyes. Everything flashed yellow at first. He stood and gathered up his trash and work belt. He dumped the trash in the can at the edge of the patio, swung his belt over his shoulder and smiled at the three sea turtles as he walked past the pool.
The icy blast of the air conditioner in the pro shop momentarily stunned Dylan. He winced as the abrupt temperature change brought the pounding back to his head. He slowly rubbed his eyes and looked around the shop. His boss, Bobby, had been hired to tear down the sales counter and the wall to the storage room on the north side of the shop, adding another ten feet of floor space. Bobby left most of the work to Dylan which he had completed last week along with the painting and the carpeting. Now all that was left to do was finish the new sales counter on the south side of the shop. Dylan had to bolt on the new counter top, attach the hardware to the drawers and cabinets and then do the little things such as screwing on outlet covers and such.
The pro shop had stayed open during the entire remodeling, Dylan having to cover the outrageously priced clothing on the racks as well as the wide assortment of golf clubs with tarps. Of course, the sales people complained that no one could see the merchandise and as a result they were losing their commissions, so Dylan had to go out and buy clear plastic sheets and re-drape everything. And of course, the club officials kept changing their minds on the color of the paint and the carpet while at the same time complaining about how long the job was taking. Dylan loved the country club set.
He worked for a couple of hours, finishing up the counter top without any one of the half dozen or so members who drifted in and out of the shop so much as saying a word to him. Which was why he was surprised when, with his head stuck under the counter, he heard the words, “I hear tell you’re a pretty fair carpenter.”
****************
George was right. Stew Gruening, Johnny and Dave’s father, had come home from Korea and started selling work shoes from the trunk of his car. Only it was a Rambler, not a DeSoto. After a few months of this, Stew realized that the majority of his profits were going to the company in Rhode Island that manufactured the shoes. Stew had never been to Rhode Island but already he hated the place. So, Stew found a man named Sid Grossinger who, now that rubber was available again, was turning out special rubber-soled work boots for the river barge crews in a small factory in the Over the Rhine district. They formed a partnership, Sid making the work boots and shoes, and Stew selling them.
Now his own boss, Stew hit the road with renewed vigor. Unfortunately his old customers weren’t interested in switching to Stew’s new line and he wasn’t having much luck finding new ones. On the verge of going broke, Stew met a fellow Inchon vet at a Knights of Columbus bingo fund-raiser who just happened to be a supervisor at General Electric. The fellow Korean Warrior, he had been a supply sergeant who had never left Seoul, was impressed by the fact that Stew could carry two pony kegs of beer, one on each shoulder, and as they drank themselves into a sloppy, sentimental stupor, the man declared that he owed it to the Pope himself to do all he could to help his wartime buddy. Then he threw up.
The next day, Stew discovered that the other vendors who came to the G.E. plant to sell their work shoes had suddenly developed security problems. After all, this was the fifties and G.E. was making some of the Air Force’s most top secret jet engines and they couldn’t very well have any ‘fellow travelers’ lurking about. Stew, on the other hand, found himself admitted to the premises, coincidentally, just as the employees were going on their break.
His business took off. Soon other plants followed suit in Cincinnati, such as Proctor and Gamble, and Stew was on his way. He bought Sid out, he started a shoe catalog years before anybody else thought of it, and, with a new neighbor and fellow KofC member, he successfully invested in several booming housing subdivisions. The only thing bigger than Stew’s luck was his heart.
Literally.
It blew up.
Johnny knew all this. He didn’t need that little shit George Esterkamp reminding him of his father’s accomplishments, after all, hadn’t he lived under them his entire life? After the disastrous breakfast meeting with George, Johnny had to drive Dave home to his new apartment and pour him into the arms of his latest girlfriend, a Bengal’s Cheerleader wannabee named Lindie, who barely turned from the TV long enough to inform them that Dave’s newest ex-wife-to-be was dropping his second pair of kids off this afternoon. Dave snored, Lindie turned up the TV and Johnny left.
George was also right, Johnny and Dave were too good for the work boot business. Way too good, Johnny thought as he steered his Lexus across the viaduct. What kind of civic leader makes work boots, for chrissake? Where was the sizzle? The style? The sex appeal? Johnny wanted to be an innovator, the kind of man who was on the cutting edge of business, the kind of man who was on the cover of Forbes and Fortune. Work boots didn’t get you magazine covers. Work boots were not sexy.
Johnny got off the viaduct, heading for the west side of town. His radio was tuned, as always, to ten-forty, WJOK, The Jock, all sports, all the time. As a matter of fact, he had programmed all the buttons on the car radio to ten-forty. The last time Celia had used the car she had some classical college station on playing Chopin or Topaz or some other dead Kraut and it had taken Johnny, who still had a VCR that constantly blinked twelve o’clock, ten minutes and three near head-on collisions to find The Jock.
‘Talk to the Umpire’ with Stan ‘The Umpire’ Shire, was on at the moment with The Umpire talking about the off season trades in the NBA. Johnny detoured onto I-75. He took this little detour every day in hopes of running into Larry Snyder, a home builder that Johnny and Dave had invested a small fortune with, in hopes of emulating the success their father had with subdivisions in the early sixties. Unfortunately, as they and everybody else in the city found out in a five part investigative series run on the front page of the Enquirer for five fucking days, Larry Snyder had spent the last twenty years building houses without bothering to meet the building codes, the zoning ordinances and, probably most importantly, without bothering to own the land.
The brothers lost their entire investment while Larry was allowed to plead to twelve misdemeanors and declare bankruptcy, thereby keeping his house, his six cars and his three boats. In exchange he received community service where he stood on the side of the expressway picking up trash with a pointed stick and a plastic bag.
Johnny’s desire to run into Larry was literal.
He almost got him back in March but the fat bastard saw him coming and dove over the median. Johnny never saw him move so fast. He wasn’t discouraged though, Larry still had six months to go on his sentence.
All told, due to Johnny’s aggressively stupid business choices, the brothers’ rather untamed lifestyle and the aforementioned investment with Larry, the boys had managed to go through two point seven million dollars in a little less than two years; the main problem here being that Stew’s estate was worth only one point five. George was right again. It would kill their father.
Johnny gave up looking for Larry and took the Harrison Road exit. The Umpire now was going on about a mid-season trade the Reds had just made, a second baseman from Seattle who batted two- thirty and had signed for six million. Johnny almost swerved off the road. Two-thirty? Two-thirty?
“My fuckin’ dog could bat two-thirty!” Johnny shouted at the radio, even though he didn’t have a dog. He quickly hit the speed dial on his cell phone.
“Welcome to Talk to the Umpire,” said the female voice on the phone.
“Debbie, yeah, it’s J.G. Put me on.” There was no question in Johnny’s mind that he would get right through. After all, he called Stan ‘The Umpire’ Shire two to three times a week. Forget the fact that he was one of the biggest advertisers on The Jock, it was his knowledge, his expertise, his opinion that really mattered. Which was why it was such a surprise when Johnny was connected instead to some guy named Phil.
“Phil?” Johnny demanded into the phone. “Phil who?”
“Phil Meyers, Johnny, you remember, the sales manager here at WJOK?”
Johnny’s tone changed immediately as he recognized the name. “Phil?”
“Johnny, sorry to short stop your call here, mi amigo, but we gotta talk,” said Phil.
“Phil,” Johnny said as he quickly looked around his car and then hit the electric window button, lowering the window.
“Look, Johnny, you’re account’s ninety days past due, man. I’m starting to get some major heat here. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for weeks,” he said and then laughed. “I mean, hey, call me paranoid, but I’m beginning to think you’ve been ducking my calls.”
“Phil?” Johnny asked. He stuck the cell phone out the car window as he drove. “Phil?” he shouted.
“Johnny?” Phil shouted back. “Johnny, I’m losing you!”
“Phil?”
“Johnny!”
“Phil?”
“Johnny, goddammit, I know what you’re doing!
“Phil?”
“Johnny, don’t you do this! I can’t carry you any longer, Johnny. I’m getting too much heat! Johnny? Johnny, don’t you do this to me!”
“Phil?” Johnny said as he dropped the cell phone on the road and closed his window. “Good bye, Phil.”
Later, when the cops picked him up, the fourteen year old kid who found Johnny’s cell phone and ran up a forty-seven hundred dollar bill renting it out to his friends, told them that the phone had been a gift from a guy named Phil at WJO.
***************
Hear tell? Did Dylan hear right? Did someone actually say that? Slowly Dylan raised up on his knees and peered over the counter.
Thwack! The guy was taking practice swings with one of the pro shop’s eight hundred dollar titanium drivers. He set up on the rubber mat and gave it another swing, hitting the rubber tee perfectly with another solid, thwack! and completed his follow-through by watching his imaginary ball sail over the fairway, down onto the green and finally roll into the hole. He turned to Dylan and winked.
Dylan loved the wink. It was like telling him that despite the country club membership, despite the two grand worth of wafer thin wrist watch that the guy unmistakably wiggled in the afternoon sunlight for God and everybody else to see, that despite all these differences, this guy was just a good ol’ boy; one of the guys, that fraternal order of men where everyone understands each other and all that other Catholic boys' school bullshit.
Yeah, Dylan knew the type. Perfectly handsome, thick brown hair falling boyishly over his forehead, a light purple polo shirt with a crossed golf club insignia, perfectly pressed khaki pants and a pair of two hundred dollar white grain calfskin golf shoes even though the sign by the door clearly stated that no golf shoes were to be worn in the pro shop. The guy even had one of those new Star Trek type cell phones clipped to his belt, looking right out of the box.
But as the guy smiled and lined up another drive, Dylan realized he didn't just know the type, he knew the guy. Yeah, it had been a long time but he knew him. Gruening. Johnny Gruening. Probably John now. His family had owned one of the big houses here by the country club, the house set way back from the curb with a front lawn big enough to play football. Which was just what Dylan had done until the fifth grade when his parents got divorced and he and his dad moved into the one bedroom apartment off Chester. Johnny Gruening. He had a brother too, George or Joe, no David, Dave. Yeah, Johnny and Dave Gruening. Together they had made a perfect asshole.
"Your boss tells me you might be interested in doing some work on the side." Johnny said, adjusting his grip. "Maybe something off the books?" Thwack! He watched his imaginary ball again and then shifted his eyes to Dylan and gave him a sly smile. "You know, a little bit a’green from my pocket to your'n?"
There it was again. Like they were just a couple of country boys. A couple of country boys who wouldn't know a cow if it stood on their dicks. And he here was proposing tax evasion and fraud and it wasn’t even five o’clock yet. Dylan couldn't help but smile as he stood. "What kind of job we talking about?"
Johnny shrugged and switched to a putter. "Ahh, the wife's been after me to redo the basement, you know? Get rid of all the college football shit, rip out the wet bar. She says it looks like a frat house down there." He gave Dylan a look. "Like that's a problem?"
He smiled and shook his head and gently tapped a ball down the practice putting green next to the rubber mat. The ball curved perfectly around the swell in the green, dropped into the hole and was immediately ejected back to him. "Short game. That's everything," he smiled at Dylan. "Anyway, she wants to turn it into one of those entertainment thingies, you know, with a big screen and all that crap?" He stopped and stared at Dylan.
Dylan waited for some small flash of recognition to cross Johnny's eyes. But it didn't happen, which was understandable. After all, Dylan hadn't been back on the west side in fifteen, twenty years. And even then, when they were kids, he doubted that either brother knew his name. He was just another neighborhood kid that could fill out a team. Though, he did remember once, playing baseball, he had hit a home run off Johnny. Johnny had waited until Dylan had rounded first before telling him that he couldn't play anymore because he wasn't Catholic and Johnny's parents never allowed the brothers to play with non-Catholics. The fact that half the other kids weren't Catholic didn't seem to faze Johnny. He was just pissed off that somebody was better than he was. But not enough to remember him.
“A home theater," said Dylan.
"Yeah, that's it, a home theater. CD player, surround sound, new paneling, new floors, the whole nine yards," Johnny said, putting the putter back in the wrong rack. "Hey, Tony. Gimme a couple of Figurados," he said pointing at the torpedo shaped cigars in the glass display case.
Tony, the pro shop manager, unlocked the case and handed the two cigars to Johnny. Johnny took out his cutter and began to snip off the end of one of the cigars.
"Ah, that's twenty-six, fifty plus tax, Mr. Gruening," Tony said nervously.
Johnny rolled his eyes at Dylan. "He means 'sin tax.'" He waved his hand at Tony. "Just put it on the tab, Tony."
"Well," Tony started, "about the tab, Mr. Gruening..."
"Just send it to the house, Tony."
"I did."
"Well, there you have it. Problem solved." He stuck the cigar in his mouth and turned to Dylan, essentially dismissing Tony. Tony hesitated for a brief moment, just a brief one, and then thought better of it and pretended his undivided attention was needed at the shirt rack on the other side of the shop.
"So," Johnny said to Dylan, "what'dya think? You interested in the job?"
Dylan knew he should take a pass on this one. After all, the guy was obviously still an asshole. What he should do was let the guy go out and hire some Handy-Andy winos he could pay five bucks an hour and who would screw up his basement so bad his roof would leak. But then, there was something in Dylan that just couldn't resist seeing how the Johnny Gruening's of this world were living. He just couldn't help himself. He pretended to think it over for another minute and then finally shrugged. "I could come take a look, give you an estimate."
"Excellent," Johnny said, tucking the second cigar into Dylan's shirt pocket. He held out his hand, "Johnny Gruening, by the way."
What a surprise. Guy's staring down forty and he still calls himself Johnny. Dylan looked at the cigar in his pocket and then smiled and shook Johnny’s hand. "Dylan Gallagher."
****************
Jesus, what a dump! Wally Beiersdorfer stood in the doorway of the apartment, still holding the small crowbar he had just used to pop the lock on the door. He was surprised the guy didn't have a better lock, which is why he had a six pound sledge sitting down in the trunk of his Caprice. Subtlety wasn't Wally Beiersdorfer's long suit. It took him a little under three minutes to search the place, it was small enough, that was for sure, just a living room/kitchen area, one bedroom and a bath. It was really just the top floor of a house that had been converted into apartments back in the sixties along with the rest of the houses in the working class neighborhood. Wally had made sure the downstairs neighbor wasn't home by pounding on the front door with some bullshit story ready about taking a political survey. It's a good thing nobody answered because Wally didn't know fucking shit about politics.
He came back into the living room, mopping the sweat from his face with his shirt sleeve. The windows were all open and there were three fans in the small living room but still it was hotter than shit and sweat was rolling down Wally's cheeks. But then sweat always rolled down Wally's cheeks because Wally was close to a hundred pounds overweight. Well, as close as one- thirty could get to a hundred. To Wally air conditioning wasn't a way of life, it was a religion. And this fucker had none!
Wally walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door and began fanning himself with it. He had found nothing of value in his search, in fact nothing that said the guy even lived here. A complete fucking dump, he thought again. A guy pulls as many jobs as this guy did, big fucking jobs at that, and he ends up living like this? Wally shook his head and looked around the living room; an old recliner, a couple of TV tray-tables, one of those director's chairs that Wally didn't dare sit in and a beat up TV set in the corner. Shit, this guy had to have a pile socked away.
Wally took a six pack of beer from the fridge and then wedged a fan in front of the open refrigerator door, thereby making his own AC. He chuckled at his inventiveness and sat down in the recliner, the old springs groaning under his weight. He grimaced and adjusted his pants which he wore three sizes too small and tucked under his gut. If he bought pants that fit over his stomach, they'd ride up over his belly button and when he sat down they'd cut him in half, making it impossible to breath. Wally didn't blame his diet for this, he blamed Wal-Mart.
When he was downstairs, banging on the neighbor’s door, Wally had also lifted the guy's mail from his mail box. After adjusting a second fan to blow on his face, Wally began sorting through it. Fucking pathetic. No checks or cash like the good old days, just a bunch of bills and fliers. He set aside an envelope full of coupons from the local strip mall, you never knew, and quickly went through the rest.
The letter Wally was after was the last letter, the one with a return address that read Ohio Department of Corrections. He folded the letter and stuck it in his pocket along with the coupons. He twisted the top off a bottle and tipped the beer back and drank as much as he could in one breath like when he was a kid with Barge's Root Beer. Only now, Wally could drink the whole bottle in one breath. The room spun a little from the beer rush as he leaned down and pulled his five shot S&W .38 from his ankle holster. He set the gun on his lap and rocked backed in the recliner, almost tipping the chair over. The footrest popped out and Wally sank back and sighed. What the hell, he thought, letting loose with a long belch and an even longer fart. Might as well get comfortable.
At exactly five twenty-seven p.m., Dylan Gallagher walked into his apartment and saw Fat Wally Beiersdorfer sitting in his recliner. Shit. Now he'd have to burn it.
"How'd you get in?" he asked.
Fat Wally looked up from picking his nose. "Door was open," he said.
"No, it wasn't."
Fat Wally shot him a look, his face turning red with anger. "You calling your parole officer a liar?"
Dylan watched as Fat Wally raced towards his boiling point. He thought briefly about letting the tub of shit reach it. What the hell, take a chance that the porker’s blood pressure and cholesterol level would go first and pop his heart like a piñata in a batting cage. But then the thought of cleaning up all that mess changed his mind. That and the .38.
"Whatever you say." He looked at the fan in front of the refrigerator but said nothing.
Fat Wally smiled from the chair, "I can't believe a guy like you can't afford air conditioning."
"I like fresh air," said Dylan.
Fat Wally shrugged. "After three years inside, I bet you do."
Three years, eight months, twenty-three days to be exact, thought Dylan. But then, who counted. He went to the refrigerator and looked inside.
"You're all out," Fat Wally said, as he strained to pull a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. He tossed them to Dylan in the kitchen. "Put 'em on."
Dylan stared at the cuffs, his anger getting the better of him. "What for?"
"What for? What for?! What is this, a fucking debating society?" Fat Wally demanded, grabbing his piece and pulling himself upright in the chair. "Put 'em on or I'll shoot your fuckin' foot!"
At this distance, Dylan knew he could be on Fat Wally before the man could blink. But doing any damage through all that fat before Fat Wally got off a shot, well, that was another story. Dylan let out a slow breath to control his anger and snapped one of the cuffs onto his right wrist.
"Hook the other one to the fridge."
Dylan let out another breath, this one to control the pounding in his head, and attached the other cuff to the door handle. Fat Wally smiled and heaved himself out of the recliner, leaving a dark stain where his sweaty head had rested. "Now we can talk," he said.
"Talk about what?"
"Your future, Gallagher. About whether you stay outta prison or not."
Dylan's eyes narrowed as the pounding in his head increased. "I'm clean. You know that," he said.
"I don't know anything of the sort," Fat Wally said innocently, as he circled around Dylan. "As a matter of fact, I'm pretty damn sure you're up to your old tricks."
"I'm working for a contractor..."
"Bullshit!" Fat Wally exploded, stopping in front of Dylan. "You're too smart for that nigger work. You're a thief, Gallagher! And that's what you're working on!"
Dylan looked up at Fat Wally and knew that it was useless to tell him that he was too old for this shit, that he didn't want to be a forty year old convict. He knew this because Fat Wally had a one track mind, and he was standing upright at the moment, which meant he was using up most of it.
"You got a job planned, Gallagher?" Fat Wally said, circling again.
"No."
"You got something big planned?"
"No."
"You got a score lined up big enough for you to retire?"
"No."
"I say you do, Gallagher."
Fat Wally stopped in front of Dylan again. They stared at each other. "I say you do. And I say my end of it comes to twenty-five grand."
Dylan stared at Fat Wally. Now it made sense. Now all the stars were in alignment and everything was right with the world. Fat Wally was a moron, true, an idiot, of course, and now lastly, if not least surprisingly, Fat Wally was a crook. There were no more surprises in life. Dylan smiled and shook his head.
"Oh, you think that's funny?" Fat Wally said stepping closer. "How does going back to Lebanon strike you, is that funny?"
Lebanon Correctional Institute, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
"For what?"
"For what?! They'll find dope in your toilet, asshole, they'll find guns in your freezer! I got a nigger whore who'll claim you carved her ass up with a screwdriver! I can violate you anytime I want, shithead, so, do you really want to play this game with me? I own you, Gallagher!"
Which, unfortunately, was true. Dylan had been paroled with seven more years to go on his sentence. If he had known that Fat Wally was going to be his P.O., he might have stayed in prison a little longer.
"Come on, Gallagher," Fat Wally said, switching to what he thought was a sweet talkin' charm. "Twenty-five grand ain't much to you. You musta got a couple a million alone on that Willoughby job."
Three point two, Dylan thought, but he wasn't about to tell Fat Wally that.
"Twenty-five large. That's all," Fat Wally continued reasonably. "Shit, you've probably got that much stashed away."
"I had to pay the lawyers," said Dylan.
"Well, you shoulda paid 'em more," Fat Wally smiled. "You got convicted."
Again, true. Dylan was convicted, but on a plea bargain. The cops had such a hard-on for him for the Willoughby Job that they were threatening to charge him for every major theft in the last ten years. They had begun a daily ritual of hauling him in and sticking him into various line-ups, no matter what the crime. Normally, Dylan wouldn't have minded this except for the simple fact that he had actually committed some of these crimes. The risk was beginning to outweigh the benefits so he had his lawyers arrange a deal whereby he could "locate" the Willoughby property for the cops and plead to one count of aggravated burglary. Unfortunately, he was unable to return one very small, very expensive painting by Andrew Wyeth. A Pastoral. Considering this failure, along with his past record, which was considerable, he got the stiffer sentence of five to ten.
At Lebanon.
A "close security" prison, meaning it was one step removed from maximum security. Dylan didn't think much of the step. But he did his three years, eight months, and twenty-three days of good behavior, Dylan was always a model prisoner, and was paroled eighteen months ago. What with his former extravagant lifestyle, the "locating" of the Willoughby swag, not to mention his lawyer's fees, all of Dylan's money was gone. But, on the whole, he felt he got his money's worth.
He smiled again and shook his head. "You're pumping a dry hole here, Wally. I don't have twenty-five cents let alone twenty-five grand."
"Gee, that's, that's terrible," Fat Wally said, shaking his head with fake sincerity. "You think maybe you could earn it giving blow jobs in the laundry on C block?"
Dylan's face darkened. "Listen. I did my time. I’m going straight now..."
"No, you listen, convict! I don't give a shit whether you got the money or not! You got two weeks to get me my twenty-five thousand dollars or your ass is back inside! You got that?"
Dylan's stomach fell. "Two weeks?"
"Starting now!" Fat Wally said, sticking his grinning, sweaty face in Dylan's, his breath a sickly sweet, metallic onslaught. "And it's Mr. Beiersdorfer."
Fat Wally wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve and turned and looked around the room, shaking his head. "Jesus, Gallagher, you used to be somebody." He shook his head again and headed for the door.
Dylan rattled the cuffs. "What about these?"
Fat Wally turned and smiled. "You keep 'em. Maybe it'll help you remember." He flashed Dylan the peace sign. "Two weeks."
Dylan waited a full two minutes after Fat Wally had gone before he tucked his thumb into his palm and slipped his hand out of the handcuff. Two weeks. Shit. Dylan went to the recliner and stuck his hand under the seat cushion which was still warm and bowl shaped from Fat Wally's big ass. The dumbshit had been sitting on his life savings the entire time.
He pulled out the envelope and quickly counted the cash inside. A little over fourteen hundred dollars. He could get another grand for his truck, that was if they didn't look under the hood. That left him with less than one tenth of what Fat Wally wanted. Dylan had no family, his last living relative, an aunt by marriage, had died while he was inside. And he didn't have any friends either, just an assortment of former partners, none of whom would be willing to cross the street for him let alone loan him twenty-five G's.
Dylan sat in the director's chair and examined his options. Going back to Lebanon was out. Shit, staying out of there was the whole reason for going straight in the first place. For chrissake, he had a social security card now. And it was in his own name! No, going back to prison was out of the question. But then that meant, by default, that being a thief was out of the question.
Dylan had been a thief practically his whole life, it was what he was good at. It was what he was very good at. But that was then and this was now. He was finished with that life. He didn't want it, and more importantly, he didn't need it anymore. He didn't need the rush that came with the sound of a lock snapping open, the ice cold sweat, trickling sweetly down his spine as he crept through a dark room. He didn't need that tingling feeling that swelled through his body, heightening his sense of touch, his sense of smell, his sense of being. He didn't need the unforgettable sexual thrill that spread out from his groin as he got closer and closer to his objective, the life threatening hard-on that seemed ready to burst through his zipper in that single, defining moment of his life when he finally had the prize in his hands.
Jesus! Dylan started to massage the excruciating pounding in his temples and then stopped and stared at his hands, surprised. No shit. For the first time in eighteen months, Dylan Gallagher realized he didn't have a headache.