Desperate Times (2 page)

Jimmy nodded. Paula’s parents were rich and
according to her: they ranked among the wealthiest families in the
state. Paula had been cut from those considerable purse strings
when she’d moved in with Jimmy. That’d been nearly two years ago.
Ken was also right about Paula; she just might decide to return to
her parents. That would be up to her. Things hadn’t been good
between the two of them lately and Jimmy honestly didn’t know what
she’d do.

“Get moving,” Ken said, motioning toward the
door. “We don’t have a minute to spare. Take care of business, pack
your shit and get to my place by three o’clock. I think Patty’s
cooking steaks, so come hungry. We’ll eat and hit the highway.
Don’t forget to top off the tanks; this might be our last chance to
fuel that pig for a long time.”

Jimmy took the envelope and the keys to the
truck. He felt he should say something, but had no idea what that
something was. He nodded to Ken, trying to look confident and up to
the task at hand. He certainly didn’t feel up to this. Despite the
proof on Ken’s computer of the collapsing stock market, Jimmy
didn’t want to believe this could be happening. Still, he knew that
Ken would never lie to him or even stretch the truth. Ken Dahlgren
was his rock, a man he would trust with his life. He reached over
the desk, firmly shook Ken’s hand and walked out the door.

Jimmy saw Donnelly and Putnam out on the shop
floor and he avoided making eye contact with them. Ken didn’t know
them like he did. Both of the shift supervisors were masters of
illusion in the workplace. They were good company men to his face,
but out on the shop floor they were a couple of back-stabbers. They
bitterly complained to each other about Ken and his
stupid
ideas all day long. Jimmy had tried to tell Ken about this on
several occasions, but it hadn’t done any good. They’d all been
friends for longer than Jimmy had walked the earth. Ken wouldn’t
believe a word of it. Jimmy thought that the truth was about to
come out about both men. He would be right, beyond his wildest
dreams.

Hyperinflation is a term used to describe
what happens to prices as a currency rapidly loses its value. Case
in point: As recently as thirty years ago, the Zimbabwe dollar was
worth roughly 1.25 in United States dollars. By July 22, 2008, that
value had decreased to a ratio of 688 billion to one USD.

People said that could never happen here.
They were wrong.

Jimmy parked the twenty-six foot truck out on
the shoulder of the highway outside the trailer court where he
lived. The narrow streets inside Westwind Manufactured Home
Community were lined with parked cars, making it unfriendly to
large vehicles. It was a little after eight, the sun was just
beginning to burn the condensation off the windows of those cars.
It was quickly becoming a warm, humid morning. Jimmy watched a pair
of hungry robins hunt breakfast in the green grass while two
chained terriers yapped at them. Jimmy gathered his thoughts,
rolled up the window and pulled the keys from the ignition.

His double-wide was three blocks inside the
sprawling trailer court. He lit up a Camel and began to walk,
trying to work things out in his head. He didn’t bother wrestling
with the big picture. The only thing on his mind was Paula and how
she’d react to what he was about to tell her. He passed the barking
terriers, barely noticing them. Paula wouldn’t believe him; he was
sure of that. Paula caught her news on the Entertainment Network,
and Jimmy doubted if she could even comprehend what was about to
happen. He could barely get his own mind around it.

He knew it’d be an easier task if the two of
them were getting along. Just last week they’d had an argument, and
she’d threatened to move back home with her parents. They didn’t
like Jimmy and never had. They’d be elated to take her back. They’d
made it abundantly clear that they thought it was beneath their
daughter to live in a trailer court. They also blamed Jimmy for
Paula’s decision to leave school, which was ridiculous because
Jimmy had fought with her over that decision. They still argued
over it.

Jimmy continued down the sidewalk and turned
the corner on Pinto Street, stepping over an overturned bicycle
with training wheels. He could see his place from here and took one
last drag from his cigarette before flicking it into a sewer grate.
An approaching car passed and someone waved from the passenger
seat. Jimmy blindly waved back, oblivious to anyone or anything
beyond what was waiting just a few lots away. His stomach was in
knots that grew tighter with each step.

“Hey, neighbor,” a familiar voice harkened
from an open window.

Jimmy wanted to scream. It was Bill Huggins,
and Jimmy knew that if he didn’t keep moving that he’d be stuck
there on the sidewalk for a long time. Bill was a world-class
talker and could stretch a simple hello into an hour-long ramble.
He was also a crack mechanic, master electrician, and a top-notch
plumber, which made him tolerable. He also promptly returned
borrowed items. He couldn’t spell to save his life, but his
printing was impeccable. Bill was a walking contradiction, if not
an intolerable bore.

“Hey Bill,” answered Jimmy to what was now an
empty window. He stretched his legs as far as he could, hoping to
get past Bill’s trailer before he could make it outside.

Bill’s door banged open and Jimmy groaned,
the pudgy Huggins had cut him off cleanly. It wasn’t that he didn’t
like Bill; the two had known each other for years. The trouble was
Bill never bothered to ask Jimmy if he’d caught him at a bad time,
and he never seemed to give him an opportunity to say so on his
own. Bill had that unique ability to speak in a steady stream
without ever seeming to take a breath. To Jimmy, it seemed that
Bill sat inside all day thinking of things to say to him.

“What’s goin’ on, man?” asked Bill in booming
voice. “Why are you walking home?”

Jimmy shook his head with the best fake smile
he could muster. “I left my truck at work. What’s up?”

“Oh, I’ve been better,” said Bill, in what
Jimmy thought was an incredibly loud voice for this time of
morning. He wore new sneakers and a mud-colored sweat suit that
looked suspiciously like the one he’d worn the day before. “Yep, I
was up all night again; can’t sleep with this damn back. Did I tell
you I ran into Tina on Saturday?”

Bill stood between him and his trailer home.
From over his shoulder, Jimmy caught the sudden movement of his own
living room curtains. Jimmy wondered if Paula had been awake, which
would be quite unusual for her. Had Bill’s booming voice waked her
up? Jimmy thought so, Paula and everyone else on the block. Bill
continued to talk and Jimmy nodded, barely hearing a word of what
he said.

“She wants the Honda. Did I tell you
that?”

“Huh?” asked Jimmy, noticing bits of food
stuck in Bill’s teeth. “Oh, yep. You did say that. Yep.”

“Really? I don’t remember telling you
that.”

Jimmy’s eyes rested on a familiar blue
Firebird parked just up the street. There was no mistaking the
vintage car that belonged to Skip Manson. He didn’t know Manson
well, just well enough to know that he didn’t care for him. He had
a reputation for being a spoiled thug who did what he wanted,
whenever he wanted.

“The damn doctors won’t refill my
prescription,” Bill plowed on, hardly pausing for a breath. “I told
them that I can’t sleep. They don’t give a crap. I lay awake all
night and then I’m tired all day. Have you ever felt like that? I
can’t take it anymore. I’m thinking about changing doctors.
Speaking of doctors, did I tell you my cousin, the doctor
,
choked to death on his morning bran muffin? He was two years
younger than me.”

You did,
thought Jimmy. Bill smelled
of body odor, and his thinning hair stood out in twisted clumps.
The curtains flickered again and Jimmy looked back to the gleaming
Firebird—the
only
car on the street without any condensation
on the windshield. His heart sank and he pushed by Bill in
midsentence.

“Don’t,” Bill said.

“You son of a bitch,” answered Jimmy without
turning his head.

He took five steps and broke into a jog and
bounded up the cement steps, grabbing the doorknob. It was locked.
From inside the trailer he could hear the sound of running
footsteps. He dug into his pockets and pulled out his keys. He
fumbled with the ring for a second before finding the house key. He
jammed it into the lock and pushed hard on the door. He strode
inside, fists clenched, as his worst fears were realized. A
smug-looking Skip Manson was sitting at his kitchen table. He wore
a leather jacket and was tying the laces of a boot. Paula stood
barefooted next to him, clad in her red bathrobe.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Paula said,
awkwardly.

“Right,” growled Jimmy. “Then what the hell
is it?”

“We’re old friends, man,” said Manson, his
long brown hair hanging over his eyes as he battled his boot laces.
“I was just stopping by to say hello.”

“At eight in the morning?” asked Jimmy.

“Screw you,” said Paula, raising her chin to
Jimmy.

Jimmy’s head snapped back as if he’d been
slapped. “What did you say?”

“She said screw you!” replied Manson with a
sneer.

There was a huge size difference between
Jimmy and the hulking Manson. Jimmy stood five foot ten with his
boots on and weighed the same lean one hundred seventy pounds as he
had in high school. The confident-looking Manson was a head taller
than Jimmy and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Jimmy
wasn’t going to let this pass. He strode into the kitchen and sized
up the bigger man. Manson stood and leered at Jimmy.

“Please don’t,” pleaded Paula.

Jimmy never hesitated. He went straight at
Manson with a right-handed haymaker that landed with a thud on the
bigger man’s jaw. Manson rubbed his mouth with a large hand, and it
came away bloody. His eyes narrowed and he cocked his fist with an
angry growl.

Jimmy was surprised that the punch hadn’t
brought Manson down. His next punch was a left jab that caught Skip
Manson flush on the nose. Manson countered with a looping right
that caught nothing but air. He spun with the whiff, knocking over
a chair. Had Manson been more observant, he might’ve noticed the
trophy case from Jimmy’s five years of boxing golden gloves. Most
of the trophies and ribbons were second and third place, but while
Manson had spent his youth drinking beer and breaking laws, Jimmy
had been training in the ring and boxing under the name Kid Logan.
People still called him that to this day. The fight was no
contest.

“Jimmy stop!” pleaded Paula.

Jimmy barely heard her as he continued to
throw his fists into Manson’s face and body. The big man had
already given up trying to throw any punches. He covered up his
face as he lurched toward the kitchen counter. Blood splattered the
tile floor as another chair crashed to the ground. Paula moved in
and grabbed Jimmy by the waist. Bill now stood at the open door and
he also screamed for Jimmy to stop. Jimmy suddenly held his hands
up as if Bill were the police.

“I’m done,” said Jimmy with labored breath,
turning away from Manson. “I’m done. Get that piece of shit out of
here.”

Jimmy never saw the vodka bottle that Manson
clubbed him with.

Jimmy woke up flat on his back, lying on the
couch. Paula was hovering over him with Bill at her side. He felt
like a freight train was roaring through his head. Paula held
something cold on the top of his head and the stench of alcohol
hung in the air.

“Stay still. The bleeding’s almost stopped,”
said Paula. “I thought he’d killed you.”

“How do you feel?” asked Bill, his face full
of concern. “Can I get you something? Vicodin? Percocet? That must
hurt like hell.”

“No,” answered Jimmy. “I’ll be all right.
Where is he?”

“Gone,” Paula growled. “He’s gone.”

“Wow, that was some show!” said Bill. “You
whipped his ass!”

“Shut up, Bill,” hissed Paula. “Look, Jimmy,
there was nothing going on. I don’t know why he stopped over. Jerk.
He bought me a drink once up at the bar. That was it. I never told
you about that because I know how jealous you can get. Anyhow, I
ran into him at Country Market, and he asked where I lived. All I
said was that I lived here with you in the trailer court.”

“Manufactured Home Community,” corrected
Bill.

“Shut up, Bill,” repeated Jimmy, wishing Bill
would go home, knowing he wouldn’t.

Paula continued. “He must’ve driven around
until he saw my car. I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

Jimmy narrowed his eyes and nodded. He wanted
to believe her. That still didn’t explain the way Bill had acted
outside. He’d forgotten how angry he’d been about that. He turned
to Bill and glared at him.

“I don’t know anything, Jimmy,” said Bill.
“Anything except the way I felt when I walked in on Tina and Larry.
I didn’t want you or anyone else to have to live with the memory of
that. All I can say is that’s the first time I saw that car here,
it wasn’t here long and it did drive by a couple of times before he
parked it.”