swallowing a burp.
"I'm a very busy man."
"Twenty-five hundred. Add 15% to that if you
want a receipt."
Ray never lifted his head from under the
hood. He'd have no problem hiking the figure another $500 if only
to show this fruit-in-a-suit just how busy he was himself. The
mental battle waged on for a few seconds as Erskine silently chewed
on the estimate.
"Where's that damn cab? A pox on them
all."
"Hell, they're my best customers," said the
elder Marcotte.
"Perhaps we could cut short the small talk
and you could concentrate on my car?"
Ray slowly lifted his head out from under the
hood and wiped his dirty hands on a rag.
"Hard as it is to believe ... I'm working on
somebody else's right now."
The shrill scream in Erskine's head went
unnoticed as the meaty mechanic increased the thumbscrews another
half-turn.
A nearby horn honked. It was Erskine's cab.
He reached inside his pocket and produced a business card. He
handed it to Ray. Ray stuffed it in his pocket without looking at
it. He already had a severe hate on for the guy. He didn't want to
have to put a name to it, making it that much easier to
remember.
"Call me when it's ready," Erskine said.
"There's an extra $300 in it for you ... if you have it ready by
Friday."
Erskine walked over to the cab and
disappeared inside. Ray watched the taxi drive off and walked over
to the pop vending machine beside the door. He bashed out a can of
Peppy-Cola.
Marcotte took a slug and turned around to
admire a suddenly asshole-free afternoon. His stare followed the
passing M42 bus and the long billboard ad along its side. The ad
was a notice for relatives of soldiers who served in the War of
1812. They were organizing a class-action suit seeking financial
compensation from the government. Marcotte's eyes hopped off the
bus, settling on Erskine's car. His squint squared itself. The
limo's vanity plate, "ERSKINE" sneered back at him. He pulled
Erskine's card back out of his pocket for confirmation. Holding the
card in his left hand, he wiped the grease around his forehead with
the oily rag in his right.
"Oh, you'll pay extra, bastard ... you'll
pay."
... 7 ...
Derek looked into the ice cubes of his
Fountain Dew and Southern Contort whiskey. He'd heard how magazine
photographers in the '60s and '70s had snuck in pictures of ghouls
and ghosts in the ice cubes of squat and tall glasses of booze ads.
He supposed it was the print medium's version of satanic messages
played backwards on old LPs. Of course, if you looked at a banana
peel long enough, you could see Bobby Orr flying through the air
after scoring his overtime Stanley Cup-winning goal in 1970.
But Derek had looked into his drink long
enough. He twirled the swizzle stick, much like Barclay Plager had
done with his hockey stick, to upend Orr on the famous goal. When
Derek looked up to see his lunch date, Sylvie, across the table
from him, he blushed a goal-light red.
He'd scored alright. There was something
special about Sylvie. She'd passed the initial tests of naming the
junior teams for a half dozen NHLers ... and the team colors for
the past three expansion teams. But there was more to it. From the
til-death-do-us-part grip she held his hand with, in their headlong
dash across the street to beat the light ... to laughing in all the
right places while watching Slapshot ... her bubbly, contagious
laughter left his heart fluttering like a Gretzky centering
pass.
Sylvie hadn't taken her eyes off him since
they'd sat down. It was a subtle stare ... the female's
telescopic-vision surveillance. She watched the knife in his right
hand, her attention zooming in on the knife's serrated edges as
they pierced the surface of the roast beef. The unconscious switch
of the silverware soon found the fork in his right hand, stabbing
at the just-cut morsel. He dabbed the meat in the gravy and hoisted
it skyward. A glop of gravy threatened to jump off. Sylvie bit her
lip and became that glop, urging it to hang on. The fork
"I'm a very busy man."
"Twenty-five hundred. Add 15% to that if you
want a receipt."
Ray never lifted his head from under the
hood. He'd have no problem hiking the figure another $500 if only
to show this fruit-in-a-suit just how busy he was himself. The
mental battle waged on for a few seconds as Erskine silently chewed
on the estimate.
"Where's that damn cab? A pox on them
all."
"Hell, they're my best customers," said the
elder Marcotte.
"Perhaps we could cut short the small talk
and you could concentrate on my car?"
Ray slowly lifted his head out from under the
hood and wiped his dirty hands on a rag.
"Hard as it is to believe ... I'm working on
somebody else's right now."
The shrill scream in Erskine's head went
unnoticed as the meaty mechanic increased the thumbscrews another
half-turn.
A nearby horn honked. It was Erskine's cab.
He reached inside his pocket and produced a business card. He
handed it to Ray. Ray stuffed it in his pocket without looking at
it. He already had a severe hate on for the guy. He didn't want to
have to put a name to it, making it that much easier to
remember.
"Call me when it's ready," Erskine said.
"There's an extra $300 in it for you ... if you have it ready by
Friday."
Erskine walked over to the cab and
disappeared inside. Ray watched the taxi drive off and walked over
to the pop vending machine beside the door. He bashed out a can of
Peppy-Cola.
Marcotte took a slug and turned around to
admire a suddenly asshole-free afternoon. His stare followed the
passing M42 bus and the long billboard ad along its side. The ad
was a notice for relatives of soldiers who served in the War of
1812. They were organizing a class-action suit seeking financial
compensation from the government. Marcotte's eyes hopped off the
bus, settling on Erskine's car. His squint squared itself. The
limo's vanity plate, "ERSKINE" sneered back at him. He pulled
Erskine's card back out of his pocket for confirmation. Holding the
card in his left hand, he wiped the grease around his forehead with
the oily rag in his right.
"Oh, you'll pay extra, bastard ... you'll
pay."
... 7 ...
Derek looked into the ice cubes of his
Fountain Dew and Southern Contort whiskey. He'd heard how magazine
photographers in the '60s and '70s had snuck in pictures of ghouls
and ghosts in the ice cubes of squat and tall glasses of booze ads.
He supposed it was the print medium's version of satanic messages
played backwards on old LPs. Of course, if you looked at a banana
peel long enough, you could see Bobby Orr flying through the air
after scoring his overtime Stanley Cup-winning goal in 1970.
But Derek had looked into his drink long
enough. He twirled the swizzle stick, much like Barclay Plager had
done with his hockey stick, to upend Orr on the famous goal. When
Derek looked up to see his lunch date, Sylvie, across the table
from him, he blushed a goal-light red.
He'd scored alright. There was something
special about Sylvie. She'd passed the initial tests of naming the
junior teams for a half dozen NHLers ... and the team colors for
the past three expansion teams. But there was more to it. From the
til-death-do-us-part grip she held his hand with, in their headlong
dash across the street to beat the light ... to laughing in all the
right places while watching Slapshot ... her bubbly, contagious
laughter left his heart fluttering like a Gretzky centering
pass.
Sylvie hadn't taken her eyes off him since
they'd sat down. It was a subtle stare ... the female's
telescopic-vision surveillance. She watched the knife in his right
hand, her attention zooming in on the knife's serrated edges as
they pierced the surface of the roast beef. The unconscious switch
of the silverware soon found the fork in his right hand, stabbing
at the just-cut morsel. He dabbed the meat in the gravy and hoisted
it skyward. A glop of gravy threatened to jump off. Sylvie bit her
lip and became that glop, urging it to hang on. The fork
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