1

 

There was a bullet hole in the window of the donut shop, pasted over with duct tape and an unevenly cut square of cardboard. It had been there ever since Calvin McGraw first came to the shop for a morning coffee and a glazed. But Calvin looked beyond the hole, an artifact from some long ago robbery. He didn’t know how much they would have gotten away with from a donut shop heist. Not enough, he thought.

Instead, he watched the cars go by outside the greasy window. His eighty-six-year-old eyes had barely lost any focus and he mumbled to himself with each passing ride, “Ford. Chevy. Ford. Chrysler. Goddamn Toyota.”

His paper plate held only a sugary ring where his glazed had been, but his coffee was still tongue-scalding hot as he sat on the swivel stool and wasted another day. He didn’t want to be watching cars, he wanted to be in them. Driving fast. Cops on his heels, sirens and gunshots in the air. Tires screaming, rubber burning, oil thrumming through a well-tuned engine like the blood pumping fast through his heart.

Like the old days.

Calvin still remembered. Running liquor through the Iowa trees. Sneaking bales of pot across the river into Illinois. Driving anything and everything for the Stanley clan as they built their criminal empire, such as it was in a lonely southeastern corner of Iowa.

Even today he thought he got out of the game too early. He could still have been driving, like his son—in his sixties and still taking jobs. It wasn’t about the money anymore. The goddamn Stanleys never paid that great anyway. It was about the smell of gasoline and the feel of a pedal when it hit the floor and couldn’t go down any more.

Now here he was. Living in Omaha. How the hell did that happen?

Outside, past the streaks of sugar glaze blurring the window, one of those electric hybrid cars passed by on a whisper.

“Disgrace,” Calvin said out loud.

“What’d you say to me?”

Calvin turned. A skinny man in his mid-twenties, but dressed like Calvin might have in the 1940s, glared at the old man.

“Nothing,” Calvin said.

“No, you called me a disgrace. What did you mean by that?”

Ever since this place started making donuts with crazy-ass things like maple and bacon on them—bacon for fuck’s sake—these downtown types who seemed to think they lived in Brooklyn, not in Omaha about as far away as you could get, had been taking all the stools and raising the price on a cup of joe.

“I didn’t say it about you. I said it about the goddamn battery car that passed by.”

“What’s wrong with electric cars?”

Calvin rolled his eyes. He wanted to sit and watch his cars in silence. Longing and regret about the past was a solitary hobby.

“Nothing other than everything. They’re fuckin’ stupid.”

“I happen to drive a Prius.”

“Of course you do.” Calvin swiveled on his stool. He wasn’t sure if the skinny guy was being bold because Calvin’s age made him feel safe, but he was sure the guy had no clue who he was dealing with.

“Do me a favor,” Calvin said. He curled his index finger twice to draw the man near. The hipster pushed his mustache closer, probably thinking the old man couldn’t hear so well.

Calvin grabbed him by the middle finger. He pulled it back until it nearly touched the back of the man’s hand. The man opened his mouth in a silent scream, too shocked to yell out. Or too embarrassed to be bested by an octogenarian.

“Listen kid,” Calvin tugged the finger closer to breaking. “Just take your green tea-dusted donut with quince paste filling and fuck off out of here. I’m drinking coffee and watching the cars go by. I ain’t hurting you.”

The skinny guy was down to one knee now, wincing in pain.

“Oh.” Calvin looked at him. “I guess I am hurting you now. But I wasn’t then.”

He released the man’s finger. The hipster exhaled like he’d been underwater. Nobody else in the shop noticed their tussle.

Calvin said, “So beat it, okay?”

“You’re crazy. You could have broken my finger.”

“Yes. I could have. And I didn’t. Let’s call that a win.”

Cradling his wounded hand in his other, the man grew a pair of balls again and aimed his angry mustache at Calvin. “I can have you arrested, you know.”

“I guess you didn’t get the message, son.”

Calvin snatched the man’s good hand, twisted his index finger while jerking up on it. Felt the pop. This time, the guy screamed.

Calvin lifted his coffee cup. Still hot. He walked out.