Max Collins - Scratch Fever

Of course he and Julie went back a lot farther than a year ago. She had been the high school cheerleader, the homecoming queen candidate, the local beauty contest winner, who had caught the eye of the local football hero — Harold. His eye wasn’t all she’d caught: on the eve of his freshman year at State, she announced she was pregnant.

No problem: he had scholarship money, and an extra job. And he loved her. Very, very much. So they married. They had a beautiful little girl, Lisa. They were happy. Or at least he was. Julie seemed moody, but it wasn’t a bad first year for a marriage. Then his grades got bad.

He hadn’t been in Vietnam long when he got the “Dear Harold” letter.

He didn’t see any action in ’Nam. He’d had two things going for him: bad eyes and the ability to type.

He was a clerk typist, in the rear area, and never heard a shell go off. It was an easy war for Harold.

Peace had been another matter. He was divorced from a woman he still loved. He was a football hero without a college degree and had few qualifications for anything outside of clerical work or a factory job. He ended up a bartender, in an all-night joint in Gulf Port, across the river from Burlington, where he’d gone to work in a college buddy’s office as a clerk. He’d thought about bettering himself. He’d considered going back to college and trying again; he’d considered going to a business school, for a two-year degree at least, to bolster his clerical credentials.

But he gave that up after one of the two-week summer visits he had yearly with his daughter. She was being raised by Julie’s younger sister and her husband, an executive with a public relations firm in Minneapolis; she was very happy with them. They were her parents, for all intents and purposes. And while Lisa — who was thirteen now — loved her father, enjoyed their visits together, she made it clear she was happy where she was. And one thing Harold wouldn’t do was make his daughter unhappy.

There were only two things Harold wanted in life: his daughter, Lisa, who was lost to him, except in the “Uncle Daddy” sense, and his ex-wife, Julie, who had gone into business, with a beauty shop in a small Iowa town called West Liberty, and who wanted nothing to do with him — though she did call him on the phone now and then, when she was feeling low.

So Harold had settled into life-as-existence. He worked at menial jobs. The bartending gig was about the longest-term employment he’d had since the service. He took an odd pride in his ability to mix a good drink, any drink, and talked sports with customers till all hours. Harold did still get some pleasure out of watching sports on TV. That, and listening to old Beach Boys and Beatles albums from his high school days, was about all Harold had.

Till that afternoon last year when Julie showed up at the bar.

She had looked strange. And beautiful, of course. She was wearing a clingy blood-red sweater and slacks. She had a wild look, her eyes aglitter, her hair slightly disarrayed. An animal look. And there was good reason: she was on the run.

“Do you want me back?” she whispered. Just like that. Leaning across the bar. There were only a few customers in the place. Jody’s, like most Gulf Port establishments, was a night spot primarily. But she whispered.

“You know I do,” he said.

“Can you get somebody to relieve you here?”

“For a few minutes?”

“For until I say different.”

“I’ll make a call.” He did. “The relief guy will be here in twenty minutes. Can it wait till then?”

“Yes,” she said, and took a table near the bar.

The new girl, Doris, a blonde of about twenty-five with dark roots and a nice frame and a pleasant, pockmarked face, waited on Julie; Julie ordered coffee. While Doris was off getting it, Julie came to the bar.

“Who is she?”

“Just some transient gal.”

“Transient?”

“Divorcee. No kids. Got an ex-husband in Ohio she’s on the run from.”

“Why?”

“Cause he still loves her. Ever hear of that?”

“What did he do, beat her?”

“I guess.”

Julie nodded and went back to the table. Doris brought the coffee.

Julie said, “You’re new here, huh?”

Doris smiled, said, “Just collecting a few paychecks, honey. I’m on my way to California.”

“Oh. Relatives there?”

“No. My folks are gone and I was the only one. I got a couple of old boyfriends out there, though. That’s better than relatives.”

“Any time. How’s your paycheck collection coming along?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m on my way to Los Angeles. Just stopped here to look up my ex-husband. He’s that good-looking bartender over there.”

“Harold’s your ex? No kiddin’!”

She sat down.

“Say, I was mostly saving for my bus fare and such. If you can use a rider, somebody who can help you drive, I’ll turn in my apron and hop in your car.”

Julie smiled and extended a hand. “It’s a deal.”

Shortly before three o’clock that morning, Harold was in the Mustang, and Doris was behind the wheel. Harold, in the passenger’s seat, was steering, because Doris was unconscious. Julie had put Seconal in some coffee Doris drank a few hours before. Harold was off on the shoulder, waiting for Julie. There was some snow on the ground, but no ice on the highway. It was cold. Harold was sweating.

She came over the bridge, driving his old sky-blue Dodge Charger, the one he’d had since college, and she blinked her brights. That meant the truck was coming. He pulled the Mustang across the mouth of the narrow bridge, left it in park, got out and ran to hop in Julie’s waiting car. They were half a mile away when the small bridge behind them seemed to blow up, in a huge orange ball, as though a shell had hit it.

HE FINISHED the Manhattan and went out to her. It was chilly in the parking lot; there were no lights on out here, but the full moon provided some unreal-seeming illumination. She was standing with Ron, standing close. He pulled her away from Ron, who stood and watched them, that permanent, pouty snarl on her face.

He told Julie about the call from Infante.

They were talking about it when Ron noticed that kid, Jon, making a break for it, crawling away from her car toward the woods. The lez ran after the kid, dragged him back to the car, tossed him in.

Then Ron came back and said to Julie, “You oughta let me...”

“No,” Julie said. “Take him to your place and sit on him.”

Ron shrugged. “Okay,” she said, and sauntered off to her ’57 Ford and rumbled off.

“You’re not going to kill that boy, are you?” Harold asked Julie.

“No.”

“You mean Ron’ll do it for you.”

“I need him alive at the moment. Till we find out what Logan’s up to.”

“He’ll come here. He’s probably on his way right now.”

“I can handle him.”

“I don’t think so. He sounds like one man you can’t handle.”

“We’ll put this Infante to use.”

“He doesn’t sound like much. Some poor sappy kid. I’m afraid his partner was the smart one.”

“He’s the dead one now.”

“True. Very true.”

“Well, Harold. There’s always you.”

“I won’t kill for you, Julie.”

“Right,” she said. She put her arm in his. “Let’s lock up and go home. We can talk about it.”

COOL CLOTH touched his face. It was soothing. Jon opened his eyes.

And looked into Ron’s face.

For a moment the face looked almost human: the pouty mouth, the close-set eyes, were in a sort of repose, the nastiness set aside. Then she saw that he was awake and, with just a subtle shift, the features turned ugly again.