The first half of a two-part piece. (actually I wrote the other one first,
but posted it first too...Oh, just scroll down and read the other one first.)

SOMETHING DESPERATE, DEPARTING


Bruce thought it was a done deal. He’d worked those two old guys like the pro he knew he was.
If Mickey was still alive and in town, Bruce would’ve gone right down to the Carney lot and knocked on the Boss trailer to tell him what a great teacher he’d been. He’d show Mickey the bogus contract he’d written and had printed up at Kinko’s. “Nice piece of work,” Mickey might’ve said.

Then after Mickey’d pumped his hand in pride and invited him in for a cold beer to celebrate, Bruce would casually set the bank statement down on the little dinette table so Mickey could see the fat five figure score. And if Mickey said, “What, no perks?” Bruce would tell him about the kickbacks from the contractors, tell him how he’d set it up with each one – cash only, under the table, foolproof.

The whole deal was a perfect scam, and Bruce knew Mickey would be proud of him. Maybe he’d talk about his plans for expansion. He could say, “The fields ripe, time to pick it clean.” Mickey liked those farmer type sayings, though he’d never been on a farm in his life. He would have had some good ideas, Bruce was sure.

Bruce sat back in his desk chair in the storefront office, plopped his feet up on the desk and watched the clunkers crawl through the parking lot. He could afford to wait another month or two for the bank balance to pile up – both the old guys were outa sight, outa mind. Don down in Prescott, doing whatever he did, and Jim in Galveston happy as a clam on his crappy shrimp boat. Jim had even sent him a picture.

Bruce had a whole list of excuses ready to mail out with every months paperwork, this needs fixing, and that. The bogus contracts in a neat pile on his desk, just pick one out, type in the date, and mail it off. Bruce locked his hands behind his head and stretched his back, smiling. Life was good.

He saw the old yellow Caddy pass his window and noted the beginning of the rust streaks on the doors. Bruce knew from the stints the Carney had done in Florida that salt air did that. Mickey’d bitched plenty about it. Bruce was just standing up, fixing to go take a good look out the window when he saw the trunk of the Caddy backing up into his view. He remembered that Jim had a car like that just before the driver’s window came even with his storefront.

The old fart was looking up at the address and then checking something in his hand. Bruce took that minute to snap the lock shut on the front door and back peddle to his desk. He grabbed the trash can and scooped up papers off his desk as fast as he could, praying Jim hadn’t seen him. The sun was on the windows; maybe the glare was enough to hide him.

“Oh shit! Oh shit!” He ducked behind the partition that hid the back end of the store from the street, punching down the papers in the trash can. He yanked open the back door, thankful that he’d never forgotten Mickey’s Number One rule: always have an escape route. Good thing he’d parked his car in the back.

He flung the can in the back and him self in the driver’s seat, stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. The starter ground but didn’t catch. “Com’on baby! Com’on!” Bruce hissed at the car, “Time to haul ass!” He could hear the old guy banging on the front door as the engine caught. His screeching tires muffled the old guys shouting, but Bruce didn’t care. He was outa there!