Chapter Six

Rosa had already clocked in, cleaned the perimeter, counted down my till, and opened her own by the time I got back to my spot behind the register.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, a concerned frown furrowing her brow.

I was surprised by her sudden paranormal situational awareness. Did she know something just happened? (For that matter, did something just happen?)

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I saw Deputy Love come in.”

“Yeah, I guess he’s giving me a ride home today.”

“Where's O’Brien?”

“Busy doing real work, apparently.”

“Oh.” Rosa bit her lip. “Well, I hope everything’s okay.”

As she handed me my countdown slip, our fingers touched. I began to speak without thinking, which surprised even me. Whatever contact high I’d gotten from the Bathroom Cowboy hadn’t worn off yet, and the words were flowing freely. “You know, there’s this bookstore in town called ‘New Pages.’ I go there pretty often. They have what can technically be called coffee.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

All of a sudden, I felt like a veil had been lifted, the fog had cleared, and the truth had punched me square in the face. The Bathroom Cowboy’s words, still fresh in my mind, now made a lot more sense. Your problem is that you can’t see what’s right in front of you… Holy crap! How did I miss this?

Rosa caught my gaze. Held it. “Is everything okay?”

“I just realized something.”

She fluttered her eyelashes like she had a speck of dirt in there, then uttered a soft, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Can I ask you a question?” 

She cleared her throat and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Of course.”

“How long has that guy been standing there?” I pointed at the back of the store, at the figure by the beer case with his back to us. 

Rosa’s smile dissolved. She looked where I was pointing, then back at me. 

“What?” she asked.

“That guy! Did you see him come in?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

I looked out at the lot. There was a car parked by one of the pumps. A sedan of some kind. Two or four doors, hard to tell from here. It was that grayish tannish silverish color that probably has some official name like “fossil” or “porpoise.” The man at the back of the store was every bit as nonspecific as the vehicle.

By all accounts, he seemed pretty unremarkable, and he certainly wasn’t doing anything to draw attention to himself. He was a white guy. Much older than me, but not old-old. He wore a generic suit of gray (or maybe blue). He had medium-length dark brownish hair. He stood somewhere between 5’8’’ and 6’2’’. He had two arms and two legs. 

You get the point. He was, in a word, forgettable.

“I’m gonna go see what he wants,” I said, certain that this was a smart thing to do. By the time I reached the man, whatever was left of the Bathroom Cowboy’s confidence boost had run its course, leaving behind only a hangover of confusion and regret. But I couldn't turn back now. Rosa was watching. The best I could do was get it over with as quickly as possible.

“Excuse me, sir. Did you need help finding anything?” My words didn’t sound nearly as confident out loud as they had in my head. Customer service was never my strongest skill. Plus, my voice cracked in the middle of the question like I was going through second puberty.

The generic man turned just enough to see me out of one brownish bluish eye, but he didn’t face me directly. “Yes, I’m fine.” His words were quick and low. Nearly a whisper, but not.

Well, I tried.

I turned back around and aimed my crutch towards the front counter. As soon as I’d taken my first step, the man started speaking again.

“Actually...” I stopped in place. His voice was accent-free, soft, and steady, like he was trying hard to sound nondescript. “...there is one thing you might help with.”

I turned my head, but as soon as I looked at him, he looked away. Alright. I get it. You don’t want me to see your face. I leaned forward and spoke to the man. “What might that be?”

“I’m trying to find an old friend of mine. His name is Jeremy. Jeremy Pascal. Maybe you’ve seen him around?”

Before I could stop myself, I had already blurted out three words too many, “You mean Jerry?” Ohhh, I shouldn't have said that.

The man was standing directly behind me now. “Ah, yes. ‘Jerry.’ That is one of the names he sometimes goes by.”

Time to start damage control. “If you’re looking for Jerry, I’m afraid I can’t help you. He hasn’t shown up to work in a long time. I think he might have moved on to greener pastures. If you have a message, I’ll be sure he gets it. You know, if he ever comes in for his last paycheck.”

The man brushed past me with a quick, “That won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

By the time I got back to the counter, the generic man had already left the store. 

“What was that about?” Rosa asked.

“I’m not sure. Did that guy buy any gas?”

She checked the pump screen. “It doesn’t look like it. What did he say?”

“He was asking about—”

“Yo, nerds!” We both looked up to see Jerry strolling through the doorway, blissfully unaware of how narrowly he’d missed… something. He sauntered over to the counter wearing sunglasses, an unzipped grey hoodie, and a white t-shirt that read “My Name Is Jerry!” in big handwritten lettering. He had one hand wrapped around an extra-large Styrofoam cup with a red straw poking out and the other holding a small, colorful greeting card with macaroni-words on the front. He sipped from the former and dropped the latter onto the counter next to the book.

“Y’all! Sign this card I made for Mel.”

I looked down to see that he had spelled out the words “Get Better Soon!” in dry pasta, glitter, and hot glue.

Rosa reached for it, saying “Aw, that’s so sweet of you!” With a big smile, she opened the card and read it aloud. “‘Hey Mel. Sorry you got tortured and stabbed in the heart.’ Oh look! He drew a picture of it and everything.”

She flipped the card around and held it up for me to see the crayon drawing of an overweight man in a bunny mask plunging a ceremonial dagger into the chest of X’s-for-eyes Mel while stick-figure Jerry and I hung upside down in the background. He even drew the pentagram on the wall. This card probably wouldn’t be enough to stop the pending lawsuit (and might even be used against us as evidence at trial) but it was a nice gesture nonetheless.

Rosa took a pen from the coffee mug by the register and leaned over to sign the card. It was like she’d already forgotten all about the generic man and whatever ill intentions he may have had. Right then I made a mental note to try and fire her again soon. (The owners would never allow it, but I couldn’t in good conscience give up that easily.) I made a second mental note to schedule some time alone with Jerry so I could figure out exactly what kind of trouble he was in this time.

Deputy Love noisily exited the bathroom and made a big show of pretending to dry his hands on his shirt (as if any of us would believe he’d actually washed his hands).

“Hey, Jerry,” I said as nonchalantly as I could. “Are you busy today? I could use a ride home.”

He sipped his drink and said, “Well, I was on my way to my other job.”

“Your… what? What other job?”

“The carnies are setting up this week and looking for some local muscle to help out.”

“Ah. Is it carnival time already? Great.”

Once every year, the carnival sneaks up on our town like seasonal depression. They set up on the old fairgrounds past the abandoned railroad tracks, bringing show tents, rides of questionable safety standards, and all the edible fried garbage one can stomach. Our town’s population doubles for the week with the influx of tourists. Locals love it, and the gas station gets a big boost from all the extra traffic. 

To be honest, the carnival was the only thing keeping our town alive. I was not a fan, but I was happy to know Jerry had found a way to stay busy that didn’t involve swords or drugs.

As Deputy Love reached our group, Rosa looked up from the card and gave a cheerful, “Hello again, Deputy Love.”

He nodded and said, “Hey yourself… Maria?”

Rosa held her smile, tapped her nametag, and said, “Not even close, but thanks for trying.”

Love shrugged, turned to me, and asked, “You ready?” like he was suddenly in a hurry.

Jerry picked up Mel’s card. “That won’t be necessary,” he said before I had a chance to answer. “I’ll be driving Jack home. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? You’ve earned it, big guy.”

“What about your other job?” I asked.

“Don’t worry; I gotchu, fam. Besides, you don't ever want to be on time for your first day. It sets a bad precedent. Isn’t that right, Love?”

The deputy gave him the side eye. “Who are you?”

Jerry instantly transformed into a one-man soap opera. “Gasp!” he shouted in a vaguely aristocratic accent. He waved his arms around like a nervous anime character. “You don’t remember me? After everything we’ve been through together? After all I’ve done for you?! When you were at rock bottom, I was the one who gave you a kidney! And now you act like I’m somebody you don’t even know?! I can’t believe this. You have smacked my gobs and ghasted my flabbers! Jack, I’ll be waiting in the car.”

Jerry stormed away. Once the door had closed behind him, the deputy nodded and said, “Oh, yeah. I remember now. He’s the guy who found that kidney in the trash can a few weeks ago.”

“Did you guys ever figure out whose kidney that was?” Rosa asked.

Love shook his head, “I don’t know. I didn’t follow up.” He really was the undisputed king of the Not My Job castle. “But hey, if there’s nothing else y’all need from me, I’ll just take my free coffee and hit the road. Do me a favor though? If anyone asks, I shuttled you home today. All right?”

“Who would ask?” I wondered out loud. But Deputy Love had already walked away.

 

***

 

Our conversation during the drive home yielded no answers. Jerry was just as confused as I was to learn that a man in a suit had been looking for him.

“Did he say where he knew me from?”

“No. Only that he was a friend of yours, but I got the sense that he was being ironic.”

“What did he look like?”

“That’s the weird thing. I didn’t get a good look. Normal height. Normal weight. No facial hair. Or, maybe minimal facial hair. Definitely a guy. Or possibly a girl, now that I think about it. But definitely probably a guy. I guess he was… Extremely average? Is any of this helping?”

Jerry took a long sip from the Styrofoam cup as he racked his brain. A few gulps down the road, he smacked his lips and said, “What kind of suit was he wearing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, double breasted? Dinner suit? How many buttons? Was it an American cut or British cut? Peak or notch? Mandarin collar? Lambswool? Tweed?” I was half-convinced he was making up terms.

“I, uh… I’m not really a suit guy,” I said. Jerry took another loud slurp as we rolled through a four-way stop. “Hey, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but you’re not drinking alcohol right now, are you?”

“What, this?” he shook the cup at me. “Not to worry. It’s a homemade energy drink, and everything in it is technically legal. You want some?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“I do have an alcoholic version of it, too. But that’s in a jug at home. I call it ‘five-and-a-half loko.’ Pairs great with scallops and redfish.”

“Is ‘scallops and redfish’ the name of another mixed drink?” Instead of answering, Jerry made an unexpected and abrupt turn onto an unfamiliar side street. Super defense mode kicked in. (God, was I getting so tired of super defense mode!) This time, I calmed myself down before planning out any hypothetical attacks. “Hey, I think you might have taken a wrong turn.”

He eased onto the gas pedal and muttered under his breath, “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“We’re being followed. Quick! Act natural.”

I looked in the rearview mirror to see a plain sedan turning onto the street behind us. It could have been the same car the generic man drove. Or it could be a whole different make, model, and color. The driver was too far away to see clearly, and I was okay with that. The more distance between us and any potential trouble, the better. This beater was barely running after the last high-speed pursuit, and I would rather not tempt fate any more than we already had.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Maybe they’re just headed in the same direction.”

He flicked the Nissan’s left turn signal. A second later, the car behind us turned on its own blinker. At the end of the block, Jerry turned right. The car behind us stayed at the intersection, but never turned. I watched the car until a gray minivan rolled up behind us. 

Jerry continued driving in silence, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror and one hand on the steering wheel. We were headed in the wrong direction, but I wasn’t about to discourage him from playing it safe for a change.

When the energy drink was finally gone, he let out a deep breath and began to relax into his seat, saying, “You know, there is one way we can figure out who the man in the suit is and what he wants.”

“Yeah? How?”

He took his eyes off the road and gave me the look. The don’t make me spell it out for you, you already know look.

“That’s not a very good plan,” I said loud and clear.

“Yeah, but—”

“We talked about this.” A little louder. A little clearer. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Yeah, but—”

“You swore to me that it was over!” Loud enough to make us both uncomfortable. As clear as possible. “Remember?”

He frowned and stared dead ahead at the road. I couldn’t tell what that look meant. Maybe I’d hurt his feelings. Maybe he was replaying memories of why I was right.

I knew these last couple of months had been hard on him. I could see it in the way he stared longingly at the cold drink case when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. The monkey was off his back, but never far away. It had been several weeks since his last attempt to rebuild the Russian radio, and he was jonesing hard for a fix.

I took some comfort in the fact that he was focusing more of his energy lately on this arts and crafts kick. The macaroni get-well card, the custom t-shirts, the mixed drink concoctions—these were all signs that he was on the road to recovery (okay, maybe not that last one), but Jerry wasn’t the kind of person who could stay idle for long. If he got bored, he might relapse. Or he might find an entirely different hornet’s nest to kick.

My train of thought was interrupted by Jerry repeatedly pumping the brakes. The car rocked back and forth like a cheap mechanical bull. The driver of the van behind us blared their horn and cut over into the oncoming lane. They rolled their side window down so the woman in the passenger seat—an elderly lady with blue hair, thick bifocals, and a neck tattoo—could mean-mug and flip us the bird, but I don’t think Jerry even noticed her. His eyes were fixed on the rearview mirror, on the plain sedan with tinted windows that had been tailing the van this entire time, hiding in plain sight like a praying mantis or a white-collar criminal.

“Gotcha!” Jerry exclaimed.

“Jerry,” I said carefully. “You’re not about to do anything stupid, are you?”

“Hold that thought,” he said while giving the car a little more gas than I was comfortable with.

I hugged my seatbelt as he accelerated through a left turn, putting a little more distance between us and our tail, but the sedan was behind us again in no time. Jerry flicked on his right blinker and sped up. The car behind us skipped the blinker this time but matched the gas. We were both coming up fast on a yellow light. We could probably make it if Jerry sped up just a little—

I lurched forward as Jerry slammed the brakes. The car behind us screeched to a dead stop, narrowly avoiding a collision. The light turned red, and Jerry peeled into the intersection, hooking left as an oversized pickup truck rolled coal and blared its horn at us.

“Sorry!” I screamed for no good reason.

Jerry skidded into another right turn. Then another left. Then we cut through the parking lot of the abandoned bowling alley. Finally, we were back on track and heading home.

He spent the rest of the ride explaining to me the subtle differences between American and British suit cuts. I spent the rest of the ride watching the rearview mirror and trying not to throw up.