The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man (4 page)

“Yeah.”

I sat and regarded him with the same lack of comprehension he was showing me. “So you have five checks for a thousand dollars. Made out to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Made out to you,” I proclaimed. “Jimmy, I wish I had a problem like this. Are you sure you don't know who sent them?”

“Don't know,” he muttered.

“So what's bothering you, Jimmy?” I prompted. At the bar the two young women were talking to Becky, who chatted with them and then glanced at me in a way that instantly communicated what was happening: The girls were buying Jimmy, but not me, a beer. I shrugged at my sister, indicating I thought they were too young for me anyway. Her eyebrows lifted in skepticism.

“Well … you know Milton Kramer?” Jimmy asked.

For heaven's sake. “Jimmy, would you please get to the point? Claude and Wilma want to make me an instant millionaire and there are two girls at the bar who want you to sleep between them tonight.”

“Huh?”

Becky came over with Jimmy's drink and a sympathy beer for me. “Maybe the one who doesn't get Jimmy will settle,” she teased. I scowled at her and she almost smiled for what would have been the first time in weeks. Jimmy and I raised our beers in thanks to the two girls, who appeared delighted with Jimmy and alarmed that I had somehow become part of the process. When Becky returned they enjoined her in emergency consultation.

“Milton Kramer,” I suggested, making it sound like a toast.

Jimmy nodded unhappily. “Well, it's like this. I cashed the checks with Milton.”

“All five thousand?”

“Yeah. Ten points.”

“He charged you five hundred dollars.”

“Right. I don't got a checking account anymore because of the mix-up with the bank,” Jimmy explained.

“That mix-up where you wrote checks with no money in the account to cover them.”

“Yeah. Goddamn banks,” Jimmy stated without heat. Jimmy doesn't really get mad at people, but in his mind there was something unfair about a system that required you to keep track of your checking account when the bank had all the money anyway. It had been up to me to arrange a way for Jimmy to pay off his debts a little at a time.

Jimmy is three years younger than I and had always been something of a little brother. I'd been protecting him from the world for as long as I could remember. He and Becky were the two people I cared most about in this life.

I sighed again. “Let me guess what happened with the checks.”

“They bounced.”

“That was going to be my guess.”

“So now…” Jimmy spread his hands.

“So now Milton wants his money back. Which you probably don't have anymore.”

Jimmy stared at his beer.

“Somebody sent you checks and you had no idea why, so you cashed them, Jimmy? Didn't you wonder what the hell was going on?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Well, there was no name on the checks. They were the starter kind,” he said, as if that explained it.

“Ahh.”

“So I was wondering, could you like, talk to Milton and get him to see reason here?”

“See reason? Jimmy, he's out five thousand dollars.”

“Well yeah, but I didn't know they were going to bounce. I mean, it's not my fault or anything.”

I let that statement lie there for a while.

“See, I was thinking you could maybe talk to Milton, and then you could, like, find out who was sending the checks and get the money back.”

“Get the money back.”

“Yeah, and like, I'd let you have this. Endorse it over, you know.” Jimmy reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, which of course turned out to be a check made out to James Growe in the amount of one thousand dollars. I stared at Jimmy's clear green eyes and saw no indication of anything approaching irony. I turned to the bear. “Never mind you, where the hell am
I
?” I demanded.

“What?” Jimmy asked, baffled at my behavior.

“Look, Jimmy. I'll check into this. And I'll talk to Milton. But you're going to have to pay him back the five thousand, you know that, don't you? What did you buy?”

“Uh, a bike. And I gave some money to some friends.”

“Can they pay you back?”

“Well, you know.”

I sighed. Yes, I did know. “Okay, well first, you'll have to sell the bike.” Jimmy looked unhappy. “Sell it and give the money to Milt. I'll work out a payment plan for the rest. And Jimmy, if you get any more checks, don't cash them, all right? Understand?”

Jimmy nodded with relief that I was going to help him, but I could see he was lying. He didn't understand, not really.

I suddenly became aware of something in my pocket and pulled it out. “Katie,” it said, along with a phone number. For a moment I thought of asking Jimmy what it meant when a woman told you she had a boyfriend and then handed you her phone number. Jimmy's had more experience with ladies than anybody I know. But then I thought better of it—what if Jimmy said it didn't mean anything special? I wasn't ready for that kind of news.

When I stood the two girls at the bar went on high alert, preparing to swoop as soon as I stopped polluting the situation.

Claude looked ready to have a heart attack. “Where the hell have you been?” he grated, despite the fact that I had not been out of his sight for a single second. “I told you this was important!”

“I went backpacking across Europe,” I told him, sitting back down. “What's up, Claude?”

Wilma leaned forward. “Claude and I are going to be set for life,” she announced triumphantly.

“Wilma!” Claude barked, irritated with her.

“Tell him, honey,” she urged.

“It's my idea, and then you go and spoil it,” he pouted.

“I didn't spoil it!” she snapped, her voice rising. Becky raised her head up in alarm, worried the Wolfingers were getting ready to start throwing things. I waved a hand at her.

“Claude,” I said sternly. “Wilma didn't say anything. You want to tell me your plan? Because I could really use some money right about now.”

“Yeah, okay. Well, like I was saying,” he started, giving Wilma a fierce look, “you ever heard of a little thing called the Witness Protection Program? Where they set you up in business, give you a new name and a house and everything?”

“I'm going to have a pet shop,” Wilma proclaimed.

“Wilma! Would you let me tell it?”

“We're moving to Florida!” she added happily.

“We're not going anywhere if you don't learn to keep your trap shut!” Claude thundered.

“Hey!” I shouted. They turned to me, blinking as if just noticing I was there. “You mind telling me what this is all about?”

“Well, remember when I saw that guy smashing the headlights on the front row of cars at the dealership?” Claude asked.

I nodded.

“They caught the guy,” Claude announced delightedly.

I looked at the two of them beaming at me. “And?” I prompted.

“I'm a witness!” They clinked glasses in congratulations.

“What a couple of idiots,”
I heard the bear say. I froze, then turned my head slowly, looking for what had sounded like someone bent over and speaking directly into my ear. Jimmy had joined the two girls at the bar, and the bear was still immobile in attack, lips not moving, all the way across the room. There was no one else within ten feet of me.

“Witness Protection Program,” I repeated, just to hear my own voice. I sounded like myself—the bear's voice, while male, was pitched higher.

“I'm going to tell them to make me a pharmacist,” Claude avowed.

I pulled myself back into the conversation and gazed at the glowing couple. “Sounds like a great plan,” I told them with as much sincerity as I could muster. “Tell me again why this is such good news for me?”

“We're going to ask that you be our personal bodyguard, Ruddy,” Wilma informed me. “Just until we leave Kalkaska, but still.”

“You know how much money those guys make?” Claude wanted to know.

I opened my mouth to answer when a motion caught my eye. I turned and watched in amazement as Jimmy Growe, his arms waving, flew backward across the room, falling to the floor with a crash.

 

 

3

Something Feels Wrong

 

In the shocked silence following Jimmy's fall I tracked his trajectory back to its source: a nasty-looking guy I hadn't noticed coming in, with long, black hair and a goatee clinging to a threadlike existence on his chin. He was one of those guys for whom black jeans and a black T-shirt can only be accessorized with black boots and a black belt, both sporting pointed silver studs that had mostly fallen out like rotten teeth.

Sitting on one side of the two girls was a beefier version of the same guy, also in black but his T-shirt had words printed on it, so he was probably the brains of the outfit. It didn't take much imagination to picture the scene that must have ensued just prior to Jimmy's backward tumble. Two greasy guys try to move in on the girls, ignoring Jimmy because he was about as intimidating as a Calvin Klein underwear model. Jimmy attempts to make the bad boys back off, and one of them changes the nature of the exchange with a quick punch.

“Hey,” I observed, using my best bouncer voice. I stepped over Jimmy's prostrate form and he stared up at me blankly, not yet capable of processing thought. “That's enough of that.”

The guy with the goatee sized me up. I was considerably larger than he, but he looked anything but intimidated: Delighted, would be the best description. “Who're you?” he challenged, his voice quavering with something I swear sounded like joy.

“I'm the guy who's telling you to leave,” I answered quietly, stepping into his space. I was aware of Jimmy's playmates standing just behind him, their eyes wide as they regarded this exchange, and sucked in my stomach a little.

The guy with the goatee didn't back away, even though he had to tilt his head to look at me. He still had an odd smile playing across his lips, as if he had a secret he was dying to share with me.

A change settled over the both of us, a realization. With twin motions we glanced over our respective shoulders—my opponent at his buddy still sitting with the girls, and me at Becky, a slight head shake telling her to take her hand off the telephone.

“So you think—” I started to say, but with a fast motion he struck me in the ribs hard enough to erase the rest of my sentence. The sparse crowd, most of them my friends, gasped a little.

I rubbed my side and stopped talking, watching my opponent dance back on his feet. I stepped forward, following, bringing my arms up. I jabbed hard and hit the air where his head had been an instant before, which put me in a bad mood. He slid sideways, feinted with his open hands, and then slugged me with something. No, I realized as I staggered away from the blow, he kicked me. In the head, the guy actually kicked me in the head!

I fell as hard as big guys are supposed to, the whole room echoing with the impact. Little points of light danced in a conga line across my vision, and the back of my skull joined the chorus of pain as I struck the floor. For a moment, the room seemed to grow dark, and as I lay there I imagined I was looking up at a hole in a large oak tree.

He's dead
.

No, I'm not
.

When I thought about it, I rolled away from his feet, but he wasn't a stomper; it was too much fun to knock me down. So that was the secret he'd been so eager to share with me; he was some sort of martial arts guy.

I reconstructed my stance a segment at a time, unhinging legs, then waist, then chest. Finally erect, I raised my hands.

“Come at me, fat boy,” he snarled.

“Fat boy!” I halted and stared at him. “I weigh less than I did in college, for God's sake.”

“Come on, college boy,” he suggested.

“Better,” I muttered. I followed him around the room, accepting a couple of light hits to the face in order to set myself up for a gigantic, fight-ending punch, which arrived long after he'd jumped out of the way.

“You're fighting his fight. You can't do that,”
the bear's voice whispered in my ear.

I whipped around. “Who said that?” I demanded.

The crowd of watchers glanced at each other nervously. One of the women raised a tentative hand, looking apologetic. “Not you,” I snapped in irritation. She yanked her arm back down. No one else looked like a ventriloquist.

I swiveled back and faced my opponent, who was beaming with enjoyment. I took aim at the smile and went after it with viciousness in my heart, expending a lot of energy in what would have been a skillful attack if I'd hit him. I managed to connect with his shoulder a single time while he peppered me with blows—not a very good trade-off. My lip started to swell and my eyes stung. I was panting so hard that my throat felt like it was on fire. “Give up?” I gasped at him.

“He's faster than you. You weigh more. Get him pinned in the corner,”
my voice advised.

“Someone tell the bear to shut the hell up!” I shouted.

My opponent was waiting for me to recover enough to put up a pitiful resistance.
“The corner!”
the voice urged.

I pressed forward. This time, when my opponent jinked left I moved only to block, backing him up toward the corner. I hunched my shoulders and accepted punishment to my ribs again. Okay. He was running out of room to retreat. At the last moment he seemed to sense my plan and tried to dart to the right but I lunged and had him against the wall. My arms came around him and I squeezed.

He grunted and tried to pull my arms away. I held on and we toppled to the floor like drunken dancers at a wedding. He no longer looked happy.

Once he had squirmed around a little it seemed like the easiest thing in the world to catch his wrist and bend his arm back up behind him. He knew that was the end and went limp, surrendering. I lay on top of him and tried to suck in enough air to ensure continued consciousness.