Dave Zeltserman - Fast Lane

“Well,” I said. “There’s not much I can do about it. I’d be lucky to come up with ten thousand dollars. Have yourself a nice trip home.”

Stunned, he sat there hunched over, his arms nothing more than withered appendages, his hands bent like bony claws. The sight of him made me laugh like all hell. On the inside. On the outside, I looked as serious as could be, my lips pulled down, frowning. I could’ve agreed to the fifty thousand-I could’ve agreed to a million-but I had to keep him off balance. Make him think he was sweating the money out of me, that I was actually planning on paying him off. Knowing what his real payoff was going to be made me laugh all the harder. On the inside.

“Give me fifteen thousand, then,” he croaked, his face sagging under the weight of his offered compromise.

I gave a concerned look. “I don’t know if I can raise that type of money.”

“You just better!” He waggled a gnarled finger at me. “Don’t think I don’t know how to handle the likes of you! You be here tomorrow at noon with every single penny of it.”

I let out a lungful of air. “I’ll try, but I don’t think I can get fifteen thousand dollars.”

“You just better make sure you do.” His face got a crafty look again. “And you better not be thinking of pulling anything. I arranged it so if anything happens to me, they’ll find out about you.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “If you’ve already told anyone else about this, the deals off. I’m not about to be shaken down by a parade of boozed-up bums.”

He chuckled. “You’re even stupider than your daddy said you were. You think I go and tell anyone that? But I did take care of things, don’t you think I didn’t. I wrote up all about you, and I left it in a-in a safety deposit box. If anything happens to me, they’ll find out about you alright.”

“Pretty clever.” I nodded, and I was laughing even harder inside. The thought of him spending money on a safety deposit box was too much. Still though, there might be a shade of truth to it.

“Damn right it is!” he agreed. “You just remember you ain’t dealing with a danged fool like yourself. Now git yourself out of my sight. I’m finished with you!”

“How do I contact you if something comes up?”

“You don’t!” he snapped. “You think I tell you that? Now git out and make sure you bring the money.”

I left him sitting there, feeling like he won something. But the game hadn’t even started.

The next day I rented a car and was parked across the street from Charlie’s Silver Dollar Bar by eleven thirty. There was probably no reason to rent the car-I was sure the old man hadn’t bothered to find out what type I had-but there was no reason to take any chances.

A few minutes before noon I saw him hobbling down the street towards the bar. When he got to the door, he jerked his head around suspiciously and then pushed his way through.

I took out a pair of binoculars and watched him through the storefront window. He was sitting facing the door, hunched forward with his hands gripping the edge of the table for support. I settled back in the car and got myself comfortable for the wait.

After about an hour, he got up and took a few steps towards the door. He hesitated, and then glanced around before sitting back down. That seemed to develop into a ritual he repeated every ten minutes. By two o’clock he was shaking and twitching pretty bad. He broke down then and had himself a drink. After that first drink he had some more.

It was three o’clock before he walked out of the bar. Stepping outside he froze for a moment, uncertainty clouding his face. He seemed to have shrunk since entering the bar, and watching him hobble down the street reminded me of a whipped dog. He had that same beaten look about him.

I put the car in first gear and kept fifty yards behind him. I didn’t have to follow him long-he stepped inside a three-story flophouse only a block from the bar.

I pulled the car over and sprinted to the front door. I stood quietly and listened. He was on the staircase, and I counted his footsteps. Eighteen of them. When the sounds faded, I counted to ten and raced up the stairs. Eighteen steps took me to the third floor. I flattened myself against the wall and peered down the hallway. He was still there, slowly stumbling along. Then he stopped, took a key from his pocket, opened the door he was standing in front of and stepped inside. After the door closed, I walked over to it. Room thirty-nine. I gave the lock a quick once-over. It was a five-buck special; it wouldn’t take more than a screwdriver to get past it.

I could’ve taken care of things then and there, but as I mentioned before there was no reason to take any risks. All I had to do was show a little patience and everything would be just fine. I now knew where to find Bert Debbles. A seven-buck-a-night flophouse, where the drug addicts and bums wouldn’t find anything unusual about a ruckus coming from a neighboring room.

* * * * *

I had myself an early dinner. A full slab of ribs, French fries, and two big pieces of chocolate cake. After that, I sat for a while over a few beers and then had some coffee. I was feeling pretty good. By the time I left the restaurant it was nine o’clock. I headed to a pool hall and played for a few hours, losing a hundred bucks to a seventeen-year-old hustler. That was okay, just a way to kill some time. By the time I got home it was past midnight.

There were about a dozen messages on my answering machine where the caller paused but decided not to say anything. Probably the old man dying to give me a piece of his addled mind. It was funny though, nothing from Mary. She hadn’t tried calling my office either. I guess she must’ve decided to give me the full two weeks before contacting me.

I lay down and waited, and Bert Debbles didn’t disappoint me. Within twenty minutes the phone rang.

I answered it.

“Just who do you think you’re playing with?” he rasped. I could visualize his face, all red and quivering with rage. “You think I’m an idjit, do you? I’m going right back home and see the police about you!”

“Hold on,” I insisted. “I spent all day trying to raise that money and only got home five minutes ago. I asked for a way of getting a hold of you, but you wouldn’t tell me.”

“You got the fifteen thousand dollars?”

“I got a little over eleven thousand. That’s all I could raise.”

“That ain’t good enough!”

“What do you want from me?” I said. “I got all I could out of my house. I hit up everyone I know for loans. There’s nothing else.”

There was a long pause, which he ended by swearing. When he was through, I asked if he wanted me to give him the money now.

“No. Give it to me tomorrow. Same place. Noon. And boy, you better be there!”

“I can’t,” I said. “I have to go out of town tomorrow. We’ll have to make it the next day.”

“Lookie, I ain’t fooling around!”

“Well, old man,” I said, “if I don’t do what I have to, my career’s finished anyways. It wouldn’t matter to me if you sold my life story to the tabloids. The following day, or go to hell.”

There was more silence and then he said I’d better show up the following day, that he wasn’t going to take any more crap from a worthless bastard like myself.

I did have things that needed to be done, but they probably wouldn’t take more than a few hours. I figured it wouldn’t hurt the old man none to let him sweat one more day.

* * * * *

The next morning I called Jerry Bry at his office. When he got on the phone, he asked me to listen carefully and then slammed the receiver down. It was a pretty childish trick and I shook my head sadly thinking about it.