Frederick Zackel - Dead Wrong About the Guy

Flea was frantic. "You can't leave me helpless like this."

The Mustang stayed stopped in the fast lane of the highway. A few cars came up behind us, then went around us. Some assholes even tooted their horns.

I ignored them all and made no move to restart the Mustang. I stared, amazed and surprised, at the desperate Flea.

"I got no chance of surviving without you in on it!"

"Why should I help you? Who are you, Flea? Hey, nobody calls you Flea because you're a big man."

"Mister Paoli, please!"

I stared for a long moment at Flea. Amused at seeing a new, even more desperate side to Flea, I decided I wanted to see more of this new man.

"Okay, I will look around--"

Flea was surprised. "Then you'll help me?"

I shrugged. "I won't go that far.

"Thank you, thank you, Mister Paoli--"

"I'll look around," I cautioned Flea. "Nothing more--"

"Thank you," Flea gushed, "thank you, Mister Paoli."

"One thing first, Flea. While I'm here, you call me Michael Bishop. Don't call me Paoli, understand?"

Flea agreed instantly. "Yes, sir, Mister Paoli." Then he corrected himself. "Yes, sir, Mister Bishop!"

I stared with sad, menacing eyes. I started the Mustang.

Paradise Bowl was a bowling alley set off from the highway, between an auto muffler shop and a karaoke saloon. It was a two story building that could withstand a hurricane or an economic boom. The parking lot was crushed lava and half-filled with older model cars. a sign out front said "Bowl Where The Pros Bowl."

Flea kept me from leaving the Mustang. "Ah, Mister Pao-- Mister Bishop!" He was frightened. "After this is all over ... I mean, I'm being straight with you on this whole deal ... " He started pleading. "Don't blame me, okay, Mister Paoli, please?"

I made no promises.

We left the Mustang and walked towards the building.

"Why are we here, Flea?"

"See, his ranch and the processing plant pretty much run themselves, so he just hangs out playing poker in the card room upstairs."

"A regular game?"

Flea nodded. "He plays every afternoon and gets home for supper every night."

At the front door, a deputy sheriff leaving the building held the door open for us entering. I thanked him.

Once inside, I elbowed Flea. "I gather the cops don't know about the game."

Flea just looked desperate.

The bowling alley was noisy and full of beer breath and cigarette smoke. A woman in her mid-forties was working the cashier's counter. We looked each other over, but I looked away first. She was attractive, but her eyes were dead as a doornail from boredom. I felt her eyes follow us as we moved through the bowling alley.

Flea led me past the bowlers, down a back corridor, through a side door, and then up a narrow staircase. We went through a storage area, surrounded by crates and cartons, and entered the last room at the rear of the building.

We stood watching a five-handed poker game. All the players were in their mid-forties or older. They noticed us, recognized Flea, then ignored us both.

Flea deciphered the game. "Twenty bucks is the buy-in. Minimum ante is a quarter. Fumble the shuffle and your hand dies. No limit on table stakes."

"Which one's the one?"

"The one with his back to the wall," Flea said.

"And his name is?"

"Corky Collins."

When Corky Collins spotted Flea Nichols, his face stayed poker blank. He was a smug and cocky bantam rooster. He decided to tell his newest joke. "You boys all know what a Freudian slip is, right?" he asked his card buddies. Once they grunted, he began:

"These two guys are sitting in the cocktail lounge over at Honolulu International, a couple bar stools away from each other, both looking mournful. The first one says, Jesus, did I make a Freudian slip today. My wife and I were in the ticket counter, the airline clerk had these great ol' melons for breasts, and I gotta tell her, 'Give me two tits to Los Angeles!'"

The card players suspended their disbelief.

Corky Collins said, "The second guy says, That's nothing. This morning my wife burns the toast, and I said, 'Bitch, you've ruined my life!'"

He preened, while the other players, all long-time married men, snickered, or snorted, or generally noted their approval.

Corky started counting his chips. "Deal me out, boys."

"His back's to the wall." I was amused. "Only time I see that is in bad Western movies."

I asked Flea, "Which way's the restroom?"

Corky Collins followed us into the restroom and found me washing my hands with a bar of soap provided by the bowling alley. He gave me a big grin and extended his hand to shake my hand.

"Corky Collins."

"Michael Bishop." I dried my hands before I shook his hand. "Talk to me, Corky Collins."

Corky said, "Flea said you were a contractor. That you can get things done."

I corrected him. "I'm an estimator. This visit is just an estimate I'm making. I look over the job and then I make my report to the home office. Maybe we make a bid on the job. Maybe not."

Corky looked me over, must have had his doubts because the fool decided to play hardball. "You don't look like a professional killer," Corky said.

I couldn’t believe the fucker could be so dumb!

I was sharp. "You got a big mouth!"

Flea stepped between us. He was deferential to me. "He's just from a different world, Mister Bishop."

Irritated with Flea's standing up for my interests and not his, Corky jabbed me with a finger. "I made a sizable investment here--"

I didn't lose my temper. I simply jabbed Corky's face twice quickly. With my free hand, I shoved Corky's shirtfront and knocked him off-balance. Corky, caught by surprise, slipped and fell to one knee.

Over my shoulder, I said, "Watch the door, Flea!"

I motivated Flea with a shove towards the restroom door. As Corky got to his feet, I pushed the man against the shithouse walls and grabbed him by the throat, that handful of flesh surrounding the windpipe, twisted my fist and that brought Corky back to his knees again.

Corky was helpless in my grip. He couldn't breathe, was being strangled, was choking. Me, I felt good.

I kept my face smooth as ice. "Small men shouldn't have such big mouths," I said softly.

Corky was turning red in the face, maybe was dying.

Then Flea was hissing like a snake. "Mister Paoli, please!"

I flung Corky Collins aside, then turned on Flea. I grabbed Flea by the shirt, slammed him into the wall, and hoisted him up close. I breathed my anger on him, but couldn’t talk for a moment.

"Your mouth, too!" I snarled, and shoved him off to one side.

Flea shrank away, pleading. "Please!"

"That's the second time today you've interfered!"

"You gotta let him live, Mr. Paoli!"

I kicked Flea in the side of the head, but not lethal, then hauled Corky by the shirt to his feet. I grabbed the bar of soap from the sink, then pushed Corky against the urinals. With my hand, I pushed Corky's chin up, exposing the soft fleshy neck. Then I used the soap to draw a line across Corky's throat.

"Next time I'll use a knife!"

I threw the bar of soap in the sink.

Corky could talk again.

He rasped, "I gave you a thou--"

I cut him off. "Fuck your money! And fuck you!" I stalked from the restroom.

Outside, in the parking lot I stalked over to my rental. I should have driven off. Instead, I glowered at the dark ocean and I hated myself most for staying. I was still raging when Flea Nichols caught up with me.

"He's an asshole!" I turned to Flea. "And don't call me Paoli again!"

Flea was contrite. "I'm sorry, sir."

Corky Collins, whipped and sheepish, came out of the bowling alley. He had wet some paper towels and was still rubbing away at his neck.

"Please meet with him again," Flea begged.