Stinking Rich Read online

  STINKING RICH

  Rob Brunet

  Copyright 2014 by Rob Brunet

  First Edition: September 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Down & Out Books

  3959 Van Dyke Rd, Ste. 265

  Lutz, FL 33558

  http://downandoutbooks.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The author is represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc.

  Cover art and design by JT Lindroos.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  For Maria

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Stinking Rich

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Bio

  Other Titles from Down & Out Books

  Preview of Les Edgerton’s The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping

  Preview of Tom Crowley’s Murder in the Slaughterhouse

  Preview of Vincent Zandri’s Moonlight Weeps

  O God, make me good, but not yet.

  —Evelyn Waugh

  Brideshead Revisited

  One

  Danny Grant couldn’t afford to lose twelve hundred bucks at blackjack, but he did anyway. When he and his pal Lester Freeden had each played their last dollar, drowning themselves in Jack and Cokes while they were at it, they got bounced out of the Great Horned Owl Charity Casino. The towering Ojibwa doing the honors wore a nametag Danny couldn’t read.

  “What’s that say? Eddie? Ettie?” he asked, trying hard to focus.

  “Effie,” said the bouncer. He yanked Danny off his feet with one hand and dumped him in a planter.

  “What kinda name is that?” Lester asked.

  “Big Effin’ Indian,” he answered. “Mister B-F-I to you. Drive straight and slow off the reserve or I’ll show you how I earned it.”

  Danny stood up, teetered a moment, his head cocked to one side until its off-center weight nearly toppled him back into the yucca. Stone-faced, the bouncer said, “You really don’t want to know.”

  Lester nudged Danny’s elbow and they stumbled past row after row of seniors’ tour buses in the blazing white light of the late night parking lot. When they reached his car, he looked back at the casino. BFI was still watching them.

  “You wanna drive my car?” he asked, leaning on Lester’s shoulder for balance.

  “Sure thing, Danny-ol’-buddy-ol’-pal. I got your back. Least I can do for you.” Lester flashed a grin, exposing an extra wide gap where he’d lost two teeth in a bar fight gone bad. “You lean back and relax while I drive us on home. Just call me Jeeves. You must be some tired, sir. Lotta work losing all that dough.”

  Danny closed his eyes and pretended to snooze until they pulled in at Lester’s place, a nineteen-foot trailer perched in a clearing on a plot of land his uncle owned. They pounded back three beers each, listening to Whitesnake and cursing the casino. Danny said he figured the Indians made more money renting colored chips to white gamblers than the settlers had ever made trading beads for beaver pelts.

  Every two weeks on pay day, Lester would get a lift to the casino from whomever he could. Anything to avoid putting gas in his own car. The man was an incorrigible sponge, but he came by it honestly, born into dirt poor dysfunction. When Danny let him mooch drinks or bum a ride, it was kind of like giving to charity, with the middleman cut out. Besides, this particular Friday, Danny’d had a grand plan to turn twelve hundred bucks into ten thousand at the tables. It hadn’t worked out that way.

  “Damn Indians are rigging the frigging thing,” he said.

  “The only person I know who ever wins anything is Terry.”

  “Terry Miner? That jerk lies his ass off. If he was winning at the casino, you think he’d be holed up in that piece a crap trailer?”

  “The hell’s wrong with livin’ in a trailer?” Lester asked, spreading his arms wide.

  “It’s not that. Terry’s trailer is a shithole is all. Never mind he’s just babysittin’ the damn thing.”

  “Ain’t you the Queen of Sheba. Think you’re somethin’ special just ’cause your house has a basement? It’s your mother’s house, numbnuts. Leastways, Terry don’t live with his mommy.”

  “Lay off, Lester. You’re drunk. Gimme a smoke.”

  “Get your own cigarette, numbnuts.”

  And Danny did. He staggered out the trailer to grab a pack of cigarettes from a fresh carton on the dashboard. Lester had left the keys in the ignition, so when Danny opened the car door, the bell chimed. That woke Lester’s dog. He perked his ears where he lay under the trailer and started to growl. Danny knew the dog well. Its mangy fur was a mishmash of orangey brown, black, and grey and, as mutts go, it wasn’t terribly bright. It had bitten Lester more than once, but the guy kept it around to make sure people stayed away from his trailer. Not that there was much to steal, even when you counted the things Lester had stolen himself.

  Scared shitless his shin would be used as a chewy bone by the wacko dog, Danny grabbed the whole carton of Players Special Blend, Kings, and scurried back to the trailer.

  “Down boy. Good dog. Lester, Shooter’s growling here...”

  “Shooter,” said Lester, “back off.”

  Danny pulled the door shut behind him. “I thought you were supposed to keep that stupid mutt of yours chained. The cops said so after he ran those kids halfway to town.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But he’s a guard dog. A boner fide Rottweiler. Mostly anyways. Maybe a bit of wolf in him, according to the guy I bought him off.”

  “All the more reason to tie him up.”

  “What good’s a guard dog on a chain?”

  “Someday they’re gonna haul him off and put a bullet in his head. He’s seriously messed up. Snarly and everything.”

  “He ain’t no fuckin’ Poodle, for sure. But there ain’t nobody gonna take him away. I hook him up when I go out. Long enough he can get to the end of the driveway but not so’s he wraps round the trees. He listens good, long as I yell. And he’s afraid of my big stick. Gimme a smoke, will ya?” And Danny did.

  Three beers later, Lester asked the question Danny didn’t want to answer: “Where in hell did you come up with that wad of cash tonight?”

  “It wasn’t much. Just a couple hundred,” he lied. “Borrowed most of it from my old lady.” Another lie, even if the payday was supposed to be all about her.

  “Bullshit. You had over five hundred in chips. I saw.”

  “Well, yeah, I was winning early on, y’know.” That, at least, was true.

  “Uh-uh. No way you won that much, numbnuts. I was there.”

  “So maybe I started with a little more. I dunno. Who the fuck cares? It’s all gone now.” God’s honest truth—hurt like hell.

  “Yeah, it’s all gone. And you don’t seem none too pissed about it neither. You ain’t been working in four, five months and unemployment don’t pay shit to a guy like you. Where’d you git
that money, Dan?”

  “I’m telling you, it was just a few bucks. I got lucky is all.”

  “Lucky, my ass. You walked in there with a wad bigger’n I’ve ever seen. That’s some gig you got, ain’t it? Terry said somethin’ about a job he got you.”

  “I ain’t got no job. I got the employment insurance and my mom pays me for chores and stuff.”

  “Buuulll-shit. Don’t you go takin’ me for a fool.”

  Danny staggered to his feet and said it was time to leave.

  Lester said, “I know you got that dough somewhere, mister-I-don’t-cry-about-losin’-nearly-a-thousand-bucks. And it ain’t from your mother.”

  “Getting late. I’m kinda drunk and I still gotta drive home.”

  “Gimme a break. Your mother’s place is barely two miles from here. You could drive it blind.”

  “And I have. More’n once. But I gotta go. Maybe we can go to the casino again the next time you get paid, eh?”

  Danny opened the door and stepped out quietly, so as not to disturb the dog. Halfway to his car, he reached in his pocket for a cigarette.

  “Shit,” he said, remembering the carton he’d left on the table. He doubled back, but Shooter stirred, snorted, and got to his feet.

  “Lester. Your freaking dog again.” Danny didn’t dare move closer. Shooter had taken a position between him and the door, growling louder and sniffing at the air as if Danny’s fear were tantalizing as a rib steak.

  “So? Just get in your car,” said Lester. “He can’t bite through the door, numbnuts.”

  “Yeah, but I need my smokes. Carton’s on the table. Throw it to me, would ya?”

  “Nah, I’m kinda too tired to get up, Dannyboy.”

  “C’mon. Just throw me the smokes.”

  “Come get ’em yourself.” Lester sniggered. Shooter growled, stepping closer.

  Danny started to sweat, his stomach clenching. “Tell your fucking dog to back off.”

  “Good boy, Shooter. Good doggie. Nice guard doggie-woggie. Oh, geez, you left me your lighter, too. What a pal. What a nice rich pal. Kinda guy drops a thousand bucks on blackjack and doesn’t give a damn. I sure am a lucky guy to have a friend like you, eh? Whaddya think, Shooter?”

  The dog barked. Twice. Loudly.

  Danny backed away, then stumbled. He turned and ran the rest of the way to the car. Shooter ran after him, leaping and snapping those hungry jaws. Danny felt a tug at his elbow as he jumped in and slammed the door on Shooter’s head. Saliva flung from angry pink and black gums as the dog struggled to yank itself free. Danny released the pressure and the dog pulled back then flung itself at the driver side window. Was the deranged mutt trying to bite the side mirror?

  Danny started the car, gunned the engine twice and leaned hard on the horn to piss off Lester. He floored it in reverse down the driveway, peeled his tires, and watched in the rearview mirror as Shooter chased him half a mile up the road.

  Next morning, Danny rolled a cold can of Coke back and forth across his forehead. His mother had laid a plate of eggs and toast on the table before darting to her shift at The Boathouse.

  “Nice to see you here this morning, hon,” she said. “She must be something special, making you slink off days at a time for, what is it, four months now? When are you going to bring her home so I can check her out?”

  Guilt twisted Danny’s gut. Couldn’t his mother be just a little less enthusiastic about his make-believe sweetheart? He should never have dreamt up that part about her studying at Queen’s to become an engineer or something. Fact was, Danny hadn’t had anything like a real girlfriend since he was sixteen years old. Even then, he was pretty sure nine consecutive nights in a tent with his neighbor’s cousin from Montreal didn’t count as a relationship. But it was something.

  Danny’s mother pecked him on the forehead and said, “There’s lasagna, but it’s for Ernie. Please don’t eat more than a slice or two.”

  He opened the fridge and lifted the foil to peek at the golden-brown melted mozzarella, unable to resist dipping a finger in his mother’s sauce. “Want me to drop it over?” he asked.

  “That’d be sweet,” she said. “If you need a little cash, there’s some on my dresser. Heavy tippers last night.” As she leaned in to give him a hug, Danny heard a rattle in her chest. Much as she fought the cough, it took hold, and she hacked her way out the door.

  Her goodbye hung in the air, heavy with the scent of Opium, the late night perfume she seemed able to carry all hours of the day. Wandering into her bedroom, he shifted the can to the back of his neck where it was still cold enough to do some good. He leafed through the stack of fives and tens on her dresser. Nearly two hundred bucks. In the five years since dropping out of high school, he had struggled to get his act together and bring home more than a few dollars for rent now and then. Meanwhile, his mom slogged for tips, wasting away year after year of her life getting her ass pinched in local roadhouses, and all she had to show for it was an aggravated case of asthma. She’d long quit smoking herself and Danny always took his outside. Just about the only decent thing he did, he figured.

  He counted out eighty bucks. Enough for a fresh carton of cigarettes. There was already food for the week at the farmhouse where he’d been living while his mom thought he was with the Queen’s girl. Half tank of gas in the car. And he’d get the next envelope stuffed with cash in a day or two. This time, he wouldn’t blow it.

  Turning to leave, he came face-to-face with the picture of his mother tossing him naked into the air, standing waist deep in brilliant blue lake water. She’d made a poster of it for him on his fifth birthday and moved it into her own room when he outgrew it in his.

  “Fuck it,” he said, throwing the money back on her dresser and opening the Coke. He guzzled it, stomped out of the house, and went to take back his carton of Players Special Blend. Kings.

  Two

  Perko Ratwick stood at the kitchen counter in the Libidos’ clubhouse and cracked two eggs into a mug of beer. He splashed in some Tabasco sauce and drank the mixture in one long gulp.

  “Can’t see why you wants to use them Nasty Nancies for protection, Perk,” said Mongoose. He reached over Perko’s head to pull a jar of marmalade off the shelf. Even at ten o’clock on a hot August morning, both men wore heavy black leather jackets with identical patches on the back. The patches said “Libidos” in ornate lettering, under which was embroidery that looked like a penis riding a chopper, a testicle on either side of the fork. The hairs in particular looked realistic.

  “The gang’s name is Nancy’s Nasties, Mongoose. And you know the drill as well as I do. I use Libidos muscle, this becomes a hometown operation. I have to give up half my twenty percent. This is my gig, my sale, my points, and my call. And I say, back off.”

  Besides, thought Perko, he wasn’t about to have Marty “Mongoose” Muldoon or any other fellow gang member steal the show when the deal went down. He’d put in nearly fifteen years trying to make Road Captain, and nobody but nobody was going to ruin his big moment.

  “Alls I’m saying, Perks, is those pussies from Nancy’s crew won’t have your back the way we does. What kind of heavies got names like Bernard and Frederick, anyways?” He slathered marmalade on half a chocolate muffin and tucked it in his mouth with two fingers.

  “I could care less what their names are, Mongoose. They’re only charging me five hundred bucks each for the night.”

  “You best be hoping they’s worth more than what they’s charging you is alls I can say.” The chocolate crumbs that didn’t spray into Perko’s face got caught up in Mongoose’s three-day beard. “And what about the farmer? You think some punk ass kid’s gonna keep his mouth shut if ever the cops get at him?”

  “The cops can grill him all they want, far as I care,” Perko answered, wiping his face and taking half a step backward. “He’s never met anyone but Frederick, and only once at that. I give him all my instructions over the phone and I use a voice distorter when I do it. The shithead doe
sn’t know a thing except he has to get the hell off the property when I drop off his weekly pay packet.”

  Mongoose scratched his red-orange stubble and smelled his fingertips. His nose wrinkled. He licked off a few crumbs and wiped his hand on Perko’s shoulder. “I hope you’s right for your own sake. You screw this up and you’ll be wishing you wore a picture of your granny on your back.” Mongoose turned and tramped out of the kitchen.

  Perko’s stomach roiled. He raised his arm to shoulder height, about to give Mongoose a cheap shot face mash into the door jamb. At the last second, he dropped his hand to his side, fingers limp.

  It wasn’t so much Mongoose’s put-down that made his skin crawl; it was his implied threat. Everyone knew gang promotion worked in one direction only. If you were kicked out of the Libidos, you knew too much to be demoted to a lower tier gang. When you lost your patch, you lost your jacket, your face, your teeth, your hands, and your balls along with it.

  Much as he needed a smoke, Danny decided to deliver the lasagna to Ernie before heading back to Lester’s. He could bum a cigarette off the old man and make sure Lester was gone for the day by the time he showed up.

  Ernst McCann lived in an axe-hewn log cabin high on a hill over Pigeon Lake. The view out his living room window would have been worth a million bucks to some clown from the city. Except they’d like as not build a three-story “country home” and cut down sixty or seventy trees to show it off. The view didn’t matter one whit to Ernie McCann: he was all but blind, able to make out swathes of color and movement but no detail. To him, the green of the trees was at least as interesting as the blue of the lake. That, and the pines and cedars smelled nicer than grass.