James Swain - Gift sense

"That's Sally. She's a bag lady. Anyway, I got arraigned an hour ago. Judge set bail at one thousand dollars. I laughed in his face, told him it would be a cold day in hell before I'd fork over a thousand bucks to him. You should have seen his face!"

Valentine fell backward on the bed.

"Well, I guess I got him pretty mad. He banged his gavel like Judge Wapner and gave me a lecture about propriety in his court. I tried to keep my mouth shut, but you know me… I let him have it right between the eyes. Told him to calm down before he had a stroke. Then I asked him why he was wasting the taxpayers' money arresting me, when every day I drive over to Clearwater Beach and see a hooker on Alternate 19 with her thumb out. Guess what he did then?"

"Here it comes," Valentine said, shutting his eyes.

"Well, he starts to talk, only his face is beet red and there's sweat on his brow, and no words come out. So I say, 'Cat got your tongue, Judge?' and that gets him even madder, and he takes a big gulp of water and looks at me, and I think, You're screwed, Mabel, and then I see him start to froth at the mouth and his eyes roll up into his head and he just keels over right there."

"Sweet Jesus," Valentine groaned.

"Had a stroke. They carried him out on a stretcher. I can't tell you how horrible I felt. Still, he had no right to treat me like a common criminal."

The line went silent and he heard Mabel blow her nose. "Well, now the judge's in the hospital and no one in the jail wants to talk to me. I don't know what to do. I'm sorry to be bothering you, but who else am I going to call?"

Why not Gerry? he thought. He got you into this.

"I'm sure you're mad at your son, but it's not his fault. I'm an old woman prone to stupid deeds. It's my nature, so don't blame him, okay? Well, I guess I've babbled long enough. Can't wait to see the phone bill when I get out of here. If you do get home in the next few days, I'd appreciate it if you'd come down to the Clearwater jail and bail me out."

She honked her nose again and he realized she was crying. Tears of sympathy poured down his face, and he rubbed them away with his sleeve. Grow old enough, and Father Time will find a way to rob you of all your dignity.

A dial tone filled his ear. Valentine dropped the receiver on the pillow and covered his face with his hands.

Rising from the bed, he tore off his smelly clothes and took a cold shower, but not before chaining the door and propping a chair up against it. When he came out, he grabbed a Diet Coke from the bar and sat down at the dining-room table, the phone before him, and he began to hunt for his beloved Gerald.

Burned in his memory were five different phone numbers for his son. They included the apartment in Brooklyn, his saloon, his ex-wife, an ex-girlfriend with whom Gerry had cohabited for two years, and his cell phone. It was Pee Wee, Gerry's bartender, who answered the phone at the saloon, his tongue thickened by whiskey.

"Hey, Mr. Valentine, how's it hanging?"

"Longer than yours," Valentine growled. "Where's my son?"

"Out making the rounds," Pee Wee said. "Wanna leave a message?"

Valentine swallowed hard. Bar owners didn't make rounds.

"You're telling me Gerry is out collecting money?" Valentine said.

"I didn't say that-"

"Is Gerry still running a bookmaking operation?"

"I don't have to answer that question," Pee Wee said.

"It's my bar," Valentine reminded him.

Pee Wee hiccupped into the phone. He was in his early forties and probably wouldn't make it to fifty, the booze taking him down a one-way street with no detours.

"You're on parole, aren't you?" Valentine said. "If I call the cops and they find Gerry's taking bets, they'll put you back in jail, Pee Wee."

"You'd turn in your own son?"

"Goddamn straight I would."

"You're something else," Pee Wee said.

"Answer the question."

"Yeah, he's still taking bets."

Valentine slammed down the phone. Seething, he began dialing Gerry's other numbers, working his way through the list until an unfamiliar young miss with a sultry Puerto Rican accent answered Gerry's cell phone, a radio blaring samba music in the background. He sensed that his son was nearby, perhaps lying in bed beside her, and barked louder than he should have.

"Gerry's not here," she replied timidly. Lowering the radio, she said, "Are you really Gerry's father?"

"That's me. Where is he?"

"I don't know. Why are you such a prick?"

"Is that what Gerry told you? That I'm a prick?"

"He said you were the biggest prick on the planet."

"He wasn't off by much. Where'd he go?"

"I don't know. Why are you such a prick?"

"Maybe I'm just a prick with Gerry."

"Gerry's wonderful," she said, the word melting on her tongue. "Nobody else hates him like you."

That was a lie. Valentine gave her Gerry's ex-wife's and ex-girlfriend's phone numbers and suggested they start a support group. The Puerto Rican woman cursed him and the line went dead.

Valentine sat on the bed and felt his blood pressure rise. As criminal endeavors went, being a bookie required a lot of social skills, and he could see his son being good at many other things, like selling real estate or cars or even stock. It wouldn't be hard to make the switch; it just took desire.

Ten minutes later he called Gerry's saloon again.

"Gerry just came back," Pee Wee informed him. "You want to talk to him?"

"You're psychic," Valentine said.

"Hold on."

When Pee Wee returned, his voice was subdued. "Gerry's in his office on the other line. He asked me to ask you if you had a conversation with a young lady on his cell phone."

"I most certainly did," Valentine said.

"Oh, man," Pee Wee said. "Why'd you give Yolanda those phone numbers?"

"Because he deserved it."

"Hold on."

"Pop, you're killing me," Gerry said moments later, barely able to control his anger. "I've got this crazy bitch on the other line who wants to castrate me on account of something you said. What the hell's wrong now? I thought we had a truce."

When did one conversation constitute a truce? His son was going to have to grovel a lot more before things would ever be right between them. Feeling something inside him snap, Valentine lost control of himself.

"Son of mine, you are one useless piece of garbage. What a mistake I made thinking you had changed. You know that crazy ad you helped Mabel write? Well guess what, meatball: She got arrested for mail fraud. She's sitting in a holding cell down in Clearwater not knowing where to turn."

"Mabel got arrested?" Gerry said. "Geeze, that's too bad."

Too bad? He lost it. "Let me tell you what's too bad. Too bad is when I call the police and have them close you down. Too bad is when I stop bailing you out every time you land in jail."

"Pop, stop it," Gerry said, the edge leaving his voice. "I was just trying to have fun with the old bird. She's a little off in the head, you know? I mean, she's wasting her money running those ads, thinking people care. She gave me a business card. Mabel, Queen of Spoofs. I mean, come on."

"People do care," Valentine bellowed at him. "I care! Just because she's retired doesn't mean she can't make a statement. You think Mabel no longer matters? Well, let me tell you something: She matters plenty. She's decent and strong and God-fearing and likes to make people laugh. I can't remember the last time you embraced any of those things, Gerry."

"Stop it, Pop."

"You hurt my friend, you little shit."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"You've run out of sorrys."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I want you to fix the problem."

"What are you talking about?"

Valentine glanced at his watch. It was nine p.m. East Coast time and probably too late for his son to catch a plane. He hated the thought of Mabel spending the night in jail, but he saw no other solution. He said, "I want you to fly down to Clearwater tomorrow and bail Mabel out of jail. Then the two of you need to get out of town. Go on a cruise or something. I'll pick up the tab."