The Black Train (35 page)
“I’ll bet the poor old guy is heartbroke. He’ll probably jump out his window.”
“Hope not.” Jiff paused. “He’d crack the street wide-open.”
Both men honked laughter.
“Or maybe you’re just gettin’ too old yourself,” Buster kept it up, “and don’t want to admit it.”
Jiff glared abruptly. “Hey. Jiff Butler will
never
be too old to hustle. Fellas’ll be paying for my hard peckerwood till I’m ninety.”
“Yeah? What are you now? Thirty-eight?”
“Thirty-
two,
bitch.”
Buster wheezed. “If you’re thirty-two, George Clooney’s a Republican.”
On the TV, Jiff spied the opening of
Savannah Sammy’s Sassy Smokehouse
. “You ain’t gonna believe this, Buster, but that guy just checked in, right after Justin Collier checked out. kind’a weird, you ask me.”
“Two Food Network guys in the same day, huh? That
is
weird. But the weirder part is him being in here the other day.” Buster leaned over, grinning. “You turn a trick with him?”
“Naw—”
“Sexiest man on the channel they’ve been saying all day.”
Jiff shrugged, then remembered with some shame what he’d almost done last night during the storm.
Jesus…
He could only hope the house would settle down for a while now. “He’s straight, believe me. Got the hots for Dominique Cusher.”
“The Christian chick?”
Jiff nodded. “Straight folks are ALL fucked up, ain’t they?”
“Tell me about it.”
When Jiff signaled for another beer, Buster frowned. “You got money, Jiff? You’re not going to stiff me like the other day.”
Jiff pretended to look offended, and pulled out the fifty-dollar bill that Justin Collier had given him. “Just pull me another cold one…faggot.”
“You got it…fairy.”
Both men laughed.
Jiff felt better into the second beer.
“Wouldn’t mind going a round with
that
one,” Buster said, gesturing the screen.
Savannah Sammy was basting some ribs.
“He’s older than he looks, probably had a facelift,” Jiff speculated. “And his teeth are white as wall paint. Probably got hisself one’a them fancy California bleach jobs. Don’t like all that fake stuff…unless the money’s right.”
Both men laughed.
Jiff looked down at the fifty he’d put on the bar. Something seemed to be under it.
Oh, them check things,
he remembered. He’d pulled them out of his pocket along with the fifty.
“What’s that?” Buster inquired.
Jiff showed him one. “Old paychecks from the original Gast Railroad.”
“From the Civil War?”
Jiff nodded.
“Yeah, damn, look at this.” Buster examined one. “This one’s from 1862.”
“I found ’em in Mr. Collier’s room.”
“Why would they be there?”
“He probably found ’em in an old bookcase or desk. These things are all over my ma’s inn.” He took the check back and looked at it, bored.
But the beer was going down but good. Jiff had a feeling he’d be hanging around for a while.
He was about to put the old checks back in his pocket
when he happened to notice that one of them, though signed at the bottom, hadn’t been dated or filled out at all.
When Collier walked into Cusher’s at just before noon, there was only one seat available at the bar. Employees whisked back and forth as the lunch rush commenced.
Dominique came over, still looking a bit abraded from last night.
“Not even noon yet and the bar’s totally full,” Collier commented.
She leaned over the bar on her elbows. “I know. It’s never this full so early.”
“Well, I told you so.”
“Told me what?”
Collier cocked a brow. “Braless Dominique equals full bar.”
“Get out of here.” She lowered her voice. “Did you get my underwear?”
Collier calculated the question.
If I’m going to get involved with a girl who’s celibate then I at least deserve a perk or two.
“Damn, sorry,” he lied. “I forgot.” He discreetly eyed the shadows of her nipples beneath the blouse. “My fault. Look, I’ll buy you some new underwear.”
“Thanks.” She frowned and suddenly seemed perturbed. “Do you want a beer?”
“No. From now on I’ll be adopting your deal. One beer a day.”
“Oh, so I guess you’ll be having it in L.A.?”
The comment, and her tone, befuddled him. “What?”
She sighed. “Look, Justin, I’m really lousy with good-byes…”
“I’m…not following you.”
“Earlier you told me you had to go back to the inn to
get your luggage.” She pointed to the front window. “And right now I can see that funny green car of yours parked right there, with your suitcase in the backseat. That means you’re leaving.”
“Well…” Collier began.
“I didn’t know you were leaving this soon—I thought you were staying at least a few more days. But—damn it—it’s my own fault.”
“Your
fault?
”
“I always knew you’d be going back to L.A., so I had no business letting myself get attached to you. It was stupid. You just walked in here to say good-bye. I understand that. But I hate good-byes, so let’s just leave it at that, and you be on your way. Good-bye.”
Collier grabbed her hand. “I’m in love with you.”
“Justin, don’t say stuff like that—Great. You’re in love with me. And now you’re going back to L.A. and I’ll never see you again.”
“I—”
She tried to pull away. “Just go, all right? Just—”
“Would you let me talk, damn it!” he yelled.
Everyone at the bar turned their heads. The St. Pauli barmaid and the other waitresses stopped in their tracks.
Collier talked lower. “I’m not going back to L.A.”
“What?”
“I’m staying here.”
“For a few more days, you mean.”
“No, no. Permanently. I quit the show—”
Dominique blanched. “You did
what?
”
“I turned down my contract renewal yesterday. I’m tired of being on TV. I’m fried. I’m sick of rush hour, I’m sick of shooting schedules, and I’m sick of California. My lawyer’s going to send me the divorce papers. I’m going to give half of everything to my asshole wife and be done with it.” He squeezed her hand. “I want to stay here, in Gast.”
She was staring at him.
“I want to stay here and have a relationship with you,” he said.
Now the employees were listening attentively.
“Justin, I don’t know…You know what I’m like, you know—”
“I don’t care about all that. I can live with it. What’s the big deal? We’ll give it a shot. I’ll get an apartment in the area—or, hell, I’ll move in with you. If you get sick of me, just tell me. I’ll boogie. If it doesn’t work out, we split. We’ll just be friends. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you know?” He gave her the eye. “So what do you say? Sound good to you?”
Dominique leaned all the way across the bar and kissed him. It was a serious, tongue-tussling kiss, and it went on long enough that he could hear some employees giggling and someone at the bar remark, “Get a room.” In the most absurd fantasy, Collier imagined himself making love to her…
But that’s never going to happen,
he reminded himself when he looked down her top again and saw the cross floating between her breasts.
Unless…
“And, who knows?” he said. “Maybe it
will
work out.”
“Yeah,” she gushed back. Perhaps it was a joke and perhaps it wasn’t, when she added, “Maybe it will work out and someday we’ll get married.”
Collier got dizzy when she kissed him again.
Yeah, maybe someday,
he thought.
Or maybe REAL SOON…
PILOGUE
“If you don’t get’cher lazy, do-nothin’ butt out’a bed right this minute, I’m gonna kick you out’a this house!” The ragged yell pierced Jiff’s ears.
Sunlight dumped onto Jiff’s face when the curtains were yanked open.
“Aw, jeez, Ma!”
“Don’t jeez Ma ME! Get up! It’s past noon!”
Jiff squinted into the face of his very displeased mother.
Past noon?
he thought. Then:
Aw…damn!
“Your poor sister’n me have been workin’ our heinies off and here you are still in bed sleepin’ off another drunk!” The voice boomed. “I didn’t raise no drunken lout!”
Jiff lay amid tousled sheets wearing only briefs. His head
pounded
as his memory ground backward.
I got drunk again last night, didn’t I? Shit, I drank ALL DAY LONG at the Spike and then wound up closin’ the joint…
“This place stinks like a pool hall!” his mother bellowed. “You got any excuse at all fer yourself?”
He leaned up with difficulty. “Dang, Ma, I’se sorry. But you’re right, I have been drinkin’ too much lately. But I only git that way…you know. When the house has one’a its fits.”
Her finger wagged at his face. “I don’t wanna hear nothin’ ’bout the house or any of that ghost stuff. You
best keep your yap
closed
about it. Damn it, boy, we got the pleasure’a havin’ Savannah Sammy at our inn, and you WILL NOT be talkin’ any of that ghost stuff to him! Ya hear!”
“Sure, Ma,” Jiff groaned.
“Savannah Sammy is an important guest, even more important than Mr. Collier—”
“Come on, Ma. You’re just all in a swivet ’cos you got the hots for him, just like ya had fer Mr. Collier—”
“Watch your mouth, boy!” his mother cracked even louder, “or you’ll be out’a here just as sure as pigs can shit!”
Jesus…
“Now you GET that grass mowed and you GET those hedges trimmed and you GET those weeds pulled! And did you even pick up the ham hocks yet?”
Jiff rubbed his temples, agonized. “Ham hocks?”
“Jesus, boy, everything I SAY to you goes in one ear’n out the other! I done told ya
yesterday
to go to the butcher’s and pick up twenty hocks’n start gettin’ ’em smoked ’cos I’ll be makin’ my ham hock and wild green gumbo fer the guests this weekend! But I guess yer just too drunk to remember!”
Jiff groaned.
Mrs. Butler waved a stack of something in his face, then
thwacked
it all into his lap.
“What the hell’s all that, Ma?”
“It’s yer
mail,
if ya can believe it!”
Letters were scattered all over the bed.
I never get mail,
he thought.
“I don’t know
what
you got in that pea brain’a yours, boy, but you better get it out and I mean in a jiffy!” Her finger wagged before his face one more time. “You ain’t responsible enough to have a credit card, so what’choo doin’ applyin’ for ’em?”
Credit cards?
Jiff scratched his head, looking at some of the mail dropped in his lap. Multiple letters from Visa,
MasterCard, American Express. “Ma, I ain’t applied fer no credit cards.”
“Well that’s good ’cos if your lazy, drunken, do-nothin’ ass ain’t out of that bed in two seconds, you ain’t gonna have a fuckin’ JOB to PAY fer a credit card!”
Jiff knew she was serious. His mother
never
said “fuckin’.”
“Two seconds, boy!” she yelled one last time and then slammed the door so loud, the walls shook and his George Clooney poster rattled.
Damn. That ain’t no way to start the day.
He creaked out of bed.
And what’s all this credit card stuff?
Just junk mail, but why this?
A cold shower barely revived him. But he knew that he would indeed have to watch the drinking. He was about to get to work but noticed his message machine flashing. He hit the button, then regretted it because he could guess who it was.
“Jiff, my God,” the voice croaked. “I’m a wasteland without you. Please, please, don’t do this to me. You must come and see me—I’ll pay whatever you want. I-I-I…love you—”
Jiff deleted the message and saw that all of the others were from him, too.
Poor fat old bastard. But…shit on him…
The phone blared, spiking Jiff’s hungover brain.
Damn!
He knew it had to be Sute.
Might as well get this over with—
He snapped up the phone. “Listen, J.G., I done told ya we’se finished. I’se sorry you’re so bent out’a shape but you’re gonna have to stop callin’ here—”
A pause. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Jiff Butler.”
Jiff frowned; it wasn’t Sute. “That’s me. Say, look I’se got a lot of work to do and if you’re one’a these telemarketer people, I ain’t inter—”
“No, sir, this is the bank. Sorry to disturb you, but about that check you deposited last night—”
Jiff strained his brain.
That last one Sute gave me.
“Damn, don’t tell me that hunnert-dollar check from J.G. Sute bounced. His checks never bounce.”
Another pause. “No, sir. We’re just calling to confirm your most recent deposit, which you made last night from our twenty-four-hour ATM. Typically, we don’t do this by phone but given the amount of the check, we just wanted to confirm.”
Jiff scratched his head. “Oh, you mean that hunnert bucks…”
“No, sir. I’m referring to the check you deposited last night, at 1:55
A.M.
”
More wheels began to turn in Jiff’s booze-stepped-on brain.
What’s this guy talkin’ about?
he thought but then—slam!—it clicked.
Holy shit! What the hell did I do?
He remembered being drunk out of his gourd at the bar, and he was fiddling with those old railroad checks he’d found in Mr. Collier’s room. He’d shown them around to everyone. He also remembered that one of the checks had been signed but not filled out…
“Hey, Jiff,” Buster had joked, “why don’t you fill that check out to yourself for a million dollars?” and everybody had laughed, but the thing was…
Jiff had been so drunk that he’d actually done it.
“Oh, look, sir,” Jiff bumbled. “About that check. See, I was drunk last night and, see, I’se only did it as a joke. I never meant—”
“Mr. Butler, I’m not sure what you mean; perhaps you’ve misunderstood me. The only reason I’m calling is to confirm the deposit and let you know that the check cleared.”
Now it was Jiff’s turn to pause. “You mean—”
“Your current balance is now $1,000,141.32.”
Jiff stared into space.
“But if I may, sir, let me switch you over to our investments manager—”