Max Collins: Scratch Fever

Now she was out in the bar that connected the restaurant and club, which, like the rest of the Barn, was rustic — lots of rough barnwood decorated with an occasional horse-collar mirror and bogus wanted posters with Bob Hale’s name and face on them. There were booths with baskets of peanuts and popcorn on either side of the dimly lit room, enclosed on three sides and affording enough privacy for people to sit and neck if they liked. Several couples were doing that now, and there were a few people sitting up at the bar, but otherwise the action at the Barn was clearly in where the Nodes were playing, rather obnoxiously, she thought. Which made her smile, and the smile felt like cement cracking. If they play loud shit like that , she thought, I wouldn’t have hired them anyway.

She was sitting in a booth. The man she’d come with, Harold, looked over from the bar, where he was nursing a Scotch and water.

Harold was a big man, even though he stood only five-eight. He had the shoulders and thick arms, big hands, of a football player specifically a guard, which was the position he’d played in high school and college, before he dropped out. His face, however, was surprisingly sensitive: heavy-lidded gray eyes behind black-rimmed glasses; a bulbous, flat-bridged nose that had never been broken; a full-lipped, sensual mouth, kept wet by nervous licking.

He came over to her. He was wearing a tan suit with a dark tie; his hair, a sandy brown, was thinning on top and cut short on the sides. He looked like a high school football coach who quit to sell insurance; but what he was was her business partner, co-manager of the Paddlewheel, their club in Gulf Port.

“What’s wrong?” Harold said. He had a soft, hoarse voice.

“Sit down,” she said.

Harold had left his Scotch and water behind; he sat across from her, hands folded. He licked his lips. He had that look she hated: the look as if he were about to cry.

“I should’ve gone to fucking Brazil,” she said. She was sitting shelling peanuts but not eating them.

“I see.”

“Give me one good reason why I should ever have gone back to you.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Shut up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“I think so.”

“Tell me, then.”

“You saw somebody. Somebody who knew you, before.”

“How could you know that?” She never failed to be surprised by the big jerk’s perceptiveness.

“It was bound to happen,” he said with a shrug, hands still folded, “sooner or later. We’re not that far from where you lived before.”

She tore the shell off a peanut, rubbed the skin off the nut within. Added it to the little pile she was making.

“You should leave,” he was saying. “Have you spoken to this person?”

“No.”

“Then you should leave. Leave while he or she still is wondering whether it was you or not It’s that simple.”

She threw a shell at him. “It’s not that simple. God, you make me sick sometimes.”

“Who is it? Who recognized you?”

“A kid in the band.”

“A kid in the band?”

“A kid in the band. Remember the guy Logan I told you about?”

Logan was the name she knew Nolan by.

“Of course I remember.”

That kid in there, the organ player, that’s Jon.”

“Logan’s partner.”

“That’s right.”

“Who was in on the Port City thing.”

“Right.”

“I see.”

“Quit saying that!”

“All right. What do you want me to do?”

“Go in there and see which kid I mean. Go in and get a look at him. He’s the short kid with curly hair and a good build.”

“Okay.”

“Then come back and sit in this booth and watch the door.” The double doors between the bar and dance area were just a few feet away. “If he comes out and tries to use that pay phone during the band’s break, stop him.”

“How?”

“Just do it. But don’t come on like a strongarm. Say you’re expecting a call or something.”

“All right. Then what?”

“Then nothing. Just keep an eye on him, when he isn’t on stage. The band only has one more break. They’re playing their third set now, which means they have one more set to play.”

“After that, what happens?”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

“How?”

“However we have to.”

He reached for the ashtray and with one thick hand brushed the pile of peanuts and shells she’d been making into it. Then he reached out and touched her hand. Held it.

“I don’t kill people, Julie,” he said softly. Eyes and lips wet.

“I know you don’t.”

“I’ll do anything for you but that”

“I know you will.”

“Anything.”

“I know.”

“But if it comes to... if it comes to that, I don’t even want to know about it.”

She smiled at him sweetly, squeezed his hand, thinking, Fucking hypocrite! You don’t care if somebody else does the killing, though, do you? Just so you don’t have to do it; just so you don’t have to know about it.

She let go of his hand. “Give me some change. I have a long-distance call to make.”

He half-stood in the booth, dug for some change, and gave it to her.

“Who are you calling?”

She got out of the booth. “You just stay put.”

He licked his lips and nodded, then reached for the basket of peanuts.

She went over to the pay phone and dialed a number in Illinois direct.

It rang six times, then a slurry baritone voice came on, saying, “Yeah, what?”

“Ron?”

“Yeah.”

“This is Julie.”

“I know it is.”

“I need you.”

“Do you?”

“I have a problem.”

“No kidding.”

“I’m serious, Ron.”

“So you’re serious. I ain’t heard from you in three weeks, and you’re serious.”

“I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Why should I be surprised you’re in trouble? You only come to me when you’re in trouble.”

“That isn’t so.”

“You only come to me when there’s some shit job that old numb-nuts Harold won’t do for you.”

“Ron, you have to come here right away.”

“Where’s ‘here’?”

“The Barn. Outside of Burlington.”

“Yeah, I know the place. They got good rock’n’roll there sometimes. Isn’t this the Nodes’ last weekend? That’s a good band. Better than the shit you book in, anyway.”

“Ron. This is serious.”

“Yeah, okay. I can hear it in your voice, it’s serious. Do I need to bring anything?”

“I think so.”

“That serious, huh? It’ll cost you.”

“Money’s no problem.”

“Who’s talking about money?”

“Ron. I’ll make this worth it for you. I promise.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m on my way.”

The phone clicked dead.

She shivered and hung up.

She went back to the booth and sat across from Harold, who was eating peanuts, slowly, methodically.

“Ron’s coming,” she said.

“I see,” he said. He pushed the basket of peanuts aside.

“Well, I can’t depend on you , can I? If something ugly has to happen, Ron’ll be up to it.”

“How can you...”

“Because I have to,” she said, biting off the words. “I’m supposed to be dead, goddammit... I ended up with $750,000 because Logan and Jon thought I was dead. If that kid gets to his friend with the news that I’m alive, that S.O.B.’ll come looking for me, and his money.”

“I could handle him.”

She laughed. “You couldn’t handle Ron.”

“Don’t make fun of me, Julie.”

“Harold, I’m sorry. You just don’t know this guy Logan. He’s like something out of a Mafia movie. Really scary.”