Despite the head start on the day, I still got to work a few minutes late. I had to walk to the bar to pick my truck up, after all. At the restaurant, there were three cars already in the lot. The first was Abraham’s Buick, complete with his Bob Marley bumper sticker. The second was Frank’s. And the third car in the lot belonged to Carlos, the cook with the evening shift.
I walked into Long John’s, and the little bell jangled above my head. Abraham was behind the counter, and Brian the life insurance guy was sipping a cup of coffee, standing by the windows. Through the long window I saw Carlos, surrounded by steam. Seated at one of the tables was Frank.
“What’s going on?” I asked him. “Am I finally getting a shift change?”
Frank raised himself from the seat with what looked like great effort. I hated him effortlessly, he was such a bum. He said, “Why don’t we talk outside.”
“Let’s not,” I said. I had a bad feeling. “What’s going on? Why is Carlos in my kitchen?”
I looked at Abe, and he looked away.
“Frank,” I said.
“Marley,” he replied. “It isn’t your kitchen anymore. I need to let you go.”
“What? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, man. How the hell can you do this to me in front of Brian?”
“I told you to come outside, you idiot….”
“Hardball, eh?”
“No hardball, Marlowe….”
“Why the hell are you firing me, man?”
“Our agreement when you took this job, Marlowe, was that you would be out on your ear if you ever got in trouble with the law, and that’s what happened. Honestly, I’m surprised it took so long.”
Jesus, I thought. Van Buren must have been holding a serious fucking grudge for him to contact Frank about my arrest.
“In case you didn’t notice, I got worked over like a two-dollar whore. I didn’t do anything. I was the victim of an assault.”
I pointed to my swollen eye.
“Sure,” said Frank. “Just like you’re a victim of goddamn sexual harassment. I don’t need to hear it.”
“Like a two-dollar whore,” I repeated.
“I can’t have any sympathy for that,” he yelled, “and you look as ragged as you always do.”
“But it’s my fucking job, man,” I said.
“Not anymore.”
Brian stood up and said, “I personally think the world of Marlowe. He’s a splendid man. I think you should give him a second chance.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Have some fucking compassion, man.”
“Compassion! Who gave you the job in the first place? What’s the first thing you do when the only man that saw a lick of good in you went on and died? You got drunk. It’s bad enough you harass the patrons when you’re sober. No one needs to hear a booze-hound like you rant and rave in the middle of my goddamn diner. Now get outta here before I call the police.”
“Well, you’re not even willin’ to entertain the thought of being a humanitarian today, are you?”
“No,” he said, and he lit one of his awful cigars.
“I’m sorry,” Carlos said through the long window. “I know,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”
I turned to Abe and said, “Any words of encouragement?”
“You’re not black,” he said. “You’ll get another job.”
I smiled, but I sucker-punched Frank in the stomach anyway. He collapsed back into his chair and gasped for air. His face turned as red as a brick. Abe rushed out from behind the counter and ushered me out of the restaurant as quickly as he could. The bell jangled, and then we were outside. Abe pushed me down the few steps outside the restaurant. It wasn’t a fight he wanted. He was just being a peacekeeper in the only way he knew how.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“It don’t look like nothing, you crazy asshole. Why’d you have to do that?”
“He thinks he’s better than me? Fuck him.”
“No.”
“You think he’s better than me?”
“No, Marley, no one’s better than you. Now go home, and I’ll do my best to keep this guy from calling the cops. How does that sound?”
“Fine, but I got friends on the force,” I said. “No, you don’t,” he said.
He was right. “Damn, Abe, you didn’t have to say it like that.”
He came down the stairs and slapped me on the arm. “Marley, I feel for you, man, but you gotta pull your shit together. You can’t go on and let yourself fall apart because of these external factors, man, you know what I’m saying? I know you’re hurting, but you’ve got to be a big man here.”
“I know. I just can’t help it.”
I felt like crying right there. I couldn’t believe I’d been fired. “I lost my fucking job, man….”
“You need someone to talk to, you know I’m here for you,” he said.
“I know, bro. You never liked Ozzy, but you’re an okay guy.”
“Yeah, and you never liked Al Green.”
“I don’t even know who the fuck Al Green is,” I said. “If you did, we wouldn’t be here right now. Now, get outta here. And, Marley?”
“Yeah?”
“Be good. There’s a lot of people in this town who remember how you used to be, and they don’t fuckin’ like you. Don’t justify that shit with some stupid-ass behavior like the shit you just pulled in here, okay?”
“Arright.”
“What would do you good is a little bit of church.”
I was driving on Old Sherman Road, my mind spinning in a hundred different directions. If my radio had worked, I would have been informed that there were still no developments with the Rose Killer case, and there was no comment from the police. Luckily, my radio was on the fritz. I didn’t have to hear it.
I hit a pothole, and my head hit the roof of the cab. It hurt, and I squeezed my eyes shut for just a second. When I opened them again, I saw there was a man in the road just ahead of me. I hit the brakes hard, and the truck skidded to a stop just feet in front of the man.
He was old, and wearing a tattered suit and a baseball cap. Over one shoulder he had a plastic bag full of cans he’d picked up from the gutters. In his hand was a long stick with a nail driven through the end. It was the fucking Indian.
His eyes glimmered with wisdom and dirty secrets, like they were laughing at me for not knowing what he knew. I should’ve hit him.
“Do you want to die, old man? Are cans that important that you’ll stand in the middle of the fucking road?”
He looked at me like I owed him an apology.
“What the fuck are you lookin’ at, you old bastard?” I shouted out the open window. He said nothing. I knew he wouldn’t. “What are you doing?”
He came over to the truck, to the side, to my window. He was holding that stick up like a weapon.
“Waiting for you,” he said in a low, cracked voice.
“The fuck does that mean?” I sneered.
“You drive these roads … like a mad wolf, white man. I know which way you come. Your darkie friend gave you some excellent wisdom, and … you’d be wise to follow it.”
“Yeah? What would that be?”
“External factors have destroyed the balance.”
“Fuck did you just say?”
“Outside forces are at work, Higgins. Be aware …”
“How the fuck do you know my name?” He smiled, ignored the question. “How do you know about me?”
The toothy smile on his face turned into a perfect moonlike crescent.
“You sinister little bastard,” I said, opening the car door, my fist clenched at my side.
Just then, I heard a noise like the wail of a clarinet, and caught a movement in the corner of my eye. On the other side of Old Sherman, right where the woods meet the road, was a wolf, watching me. It was gray, with blue eyes so piercing my heart skipped a beat. It looked at me, yawned, then padded into the maze of trees, out of sight. When I turned back to the old man, he was gone.