Precious Metal
Copyright 2006
By William C. Gibson
Chapter One - In which stuff happens:
Corcoran walked into the tavern. Straight back to the bar. Leaning politely forward, he spoke to the bartender, “Restroom?” The bartender, washing glasses in the sink behind the bar, looked up and pointed with his head, back and to his left, Corcoran's right, down past the far end of the bar.
“Thanks.” Corcoran started in that direction. As he neared the end of the bar where a middle-aged man sat quietly sipping what looked to be a double whiskey and thinking into the mirror, minding nothing but his thoughts, Corcoran's foot appeared to slip on something on the floor. “Ahh.” He reached and grabbed the man's far shoulder with his left hand - obviously for support to keep from going down.
The man, startled, swiveled to his right, halfway around, stool and all, anger on his face. “What the…”
Everyone saw it. Nobody else could hear but all of them could plainly see. They saw the face and posture of a man apologizing, saying “Sorry. I slipped on something. Didn't mean to grab you like that.” Any of them would testify to hearing the apology.
But, appearances to the contrary, that wasn't what he said. His face said it. His body said it. But his mouth, and his cold and steady stare, said “Bobby Reams sent me. You want it here or you want it outside?”
The man kept swiveling till he was squarely face-to-face with Corcoran. Lifting off the stool he slipped the right foot down and back, now standing in a fighter's stance, left hand moving up to guard, right hand swinging wide: a hard right-cross.
“I'll kill you, you son of a b…”
Corcoran, waiting, simply slipped his head a little to the right and back while coiling his body in the same direction. The other's fist slid past his cheek. He felt the movement of the air. Then he unwound.
Back to his left, right foot pushing, his entire body creating a momentum culminating at the point of his right fist. Low, coming up, below the other's now-exposed right ribs, right into the center of the side, aiming at a point six inches above, eight inches further in than his fist would initially strike. A fighter's punch, the same follow-through used in golf, driving with the legs and hips.
Not a grunt, not a groan - a quiet little squeal and down to the floor in agony.
Corcoran, over his shoulder to the barman, “Call nine-one-one, I think he's really hurt.” Then, as he turned back and leaned over, obviously to help the man he had been forced to hurt in self-defense, he seemed again to slip on that self-same something and, apparently unable to catch himself, he fell, his entire weight landing on one buttock squarely on the other fellows outstretched forearm.
Everybody heard the crunch. And everybody heard the scream. And everybody heard Corcoran, “Oh man, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Somebody hurry, get an ambulance. Oh man. I'm so sorry.” But only the sobbing man, writhing on the floor, heard the whispered, “Bobby wants his money and he wants it now, this week. Or I do it all again.”
And, to the crowd, “I think I'm gonna to be sick; need air.”
Corcoran rose, unsteady, making his way to the front door and out - and gone.
~ ~ ~ ~
He reached into his pocket, came out with a set of keys, one of them pre-selected by his fingers as he brought them out. He put it into the lock, turned key and knob together, stepped through the door.
“Corky? Is that you?”
He shut the door.
And there she was, stepping from the bedroom into the hallway, deeply tanned, lean and muscled, sleek, like a young doe deer, wearing a tee shirt and men's boxers, drying black and shining hair down past her shoulders with an oversized towel. That magic smile lighting up her face, the hallway, the apartment and his heart.
At eighteen she'd been half his age. Now, at twenty, she was closing the gap.
“I've still got to get ready for church but I'll make you some kind of breakfast if you like. A sausage and egg sandwich maybe?”
The smile again.
An aching in his chest and groin. Just the smile; that's all it ever took.
“No thanks, you go ahead to church. I stopped at the diner.”
She went back into the bedroom. Corcoran unloaded his pockets, sat on the couch, took off his boots, turned and grabbed a throw-pillow putting it under his head against the arm of the couch as he lay back, lifting his feet up and onto the other arm of the couch. He slowed his breathing, in through the nose, all the way down, hold, hold, hold, out through the mouth. In through the nose…
She came out of the bedroom, dressed in a tailored suit, navy with a bright red satin blouse, reached down and took one of his socked feet, massaged it from the ankle through the heel, the instep through the toes. And then she did the other.
“I'll be back right after church,” she said. “Be ready. Be very, very ready.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Next morning Corky took his time. Slept late. Long breakfast. Then he headed to the office, got parked, got out, headed toward the door.
“Jesus loves you Mistah Corky.”
“Give it a rest old man. Jesus don't love me. He don't love you. He don't love nobody. The man's been dead two-thousand years if he ever even lived at all.”
Preacher sat on the bench in front of the ratty storefront church, sweat beading on his forehead, the drops like diamonds on the deep brown of his forehead. Reaching slowly into the inner pocket of his faded coat he took out a blue bandana, wiped his forehead. The diamonds were back in seconds.
“Mistah Corky, you been knowing me long enough you knows I cain't jus' let that pass. If I was to say that, it would be a awful sin. You can say it though and ain't no problem 'cause you don't know no better. But you'll come to know one day, Mistah Corky. You'll come to know and you'll remember and you'll be embarrassed and ashamed. I'm gonna try to keep that off you but one old wore-out nigger preacher can't do but just so much. You go read in the book of Luke, the twenty-third chapter, the thirty-fourth verse. See what I'm talkin' 'bout.”
“You go to hell old man.” Corcoran spit on the sidewalk, turned, stalked back to the car, forgetting why he’d come.
“I'm sorry Mistah Corky but him and me still loves you whether you likes it or don't.”
~ ~ ~ ~
“Yeah?”
“Corcoran? Reams.”
“Yeah?”
“That boy you visited down in Parrish? The one got his arm broke in that bar?”
“Yeah?”
“He ain't paid me yet. Ain't even called. It’s been two weeks.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five grand.”
“Okay. Couple days.”
Corcoran set the phone down on the table, started working on a plan.
~ ~ ~ ~
The man heard the scratching on the door. “Okay, okay, I'm coming.” He opened the cabinet with his good hand, the one not in a cast, took out a can of dog-food. Using the good hand, and the fingers of the bad one, he worked the can into the opener, pressed the top and held it as the can rotated. The lid popped loose. “Damn dog.”
He held the can in his bad hand, the weight of it supported by the sling, turned the knob and opened the back door. Shouldered open the screened door, stepped out onto the stoop.
“Damn dog. Where'd you go?”
“I told you I'd come back.”
The man jumped like he'd been shot, dropped the can of dog food, spun and tried to snatch the screened door open. Tried and missed and tried again.
Corcoran stepped out of the blackness next to the stoop, reached out and grasped the man's good wrist as he was pulling on the door, a twist around and down and up behind the fellow's back. Up against the wall, face-first, next to the door.
“No please. I don't have it. I don't have it. Please. I don't have it.”
“We're just talking is all. Sorry about the other day. All a big misunderstanding. I slipped, you misunderstood, I had to keep you from hitting me - and then I slipped again. Sorry man.”
“Sorry? Misunderstanding? Slipped? You bast… Ow. Ow. Ow. Okay. Okay. Ease up.”
“What you want this time? The bad arm again or this one?”
“No man, please. I ain't got it.”
“Get it. Now. I ain't here to argue.”
“Man I can't get it right now, tonight. I'll do what I can tomorrow but I can't make no promises. Ow. Ow.”
“Mister. Are you completely stupid? Three choices. That bad arm ain't even started to grow together yet. Break it again right now and they might as well just take it off at the elbow. Or the good one. Then where you gonna be? Both arms broke? Twin casts? Use some imagination man. Or you cough up the cash. Door number one, door number two or door number three? Choose one or two, I'll just be back in another week.”
“But I ain't got it.”
“Mister, I ain't your daddy. It ain't my job to think for you. You got a boat, right? Free and clear? Worth at least one-fifty? You get on the phone, somebody will cough up twenty-five tonight in cash. I hate it for you but that's the way it is. I know you don't think I'm foolin' with you. I know you understand we ain't playing games here. Now you got to make your choice… or I'll have to make it for you.”
“What'd you do to my dog man? What'd you do to my dog?”
“I ain't hurt your dog. He's over yonder under the oleander eating biscuits. Okay? Now what's it going to be? One, two or three?”
“Okay. Okay. Just let me go inside and make some calls.”
“All right. I'm fixin' to ease off this arm and we're going inside. We're going to the phone and you're gonna sit down and make your calls. If you need something you'll let me know and we'll work it out. If you cross me the whole deal will have been a waste of time and you will hurt like nothing you ever imagined in your life. Whatever it is don't try it. It won't work out for you. Mister, this is what I do. I've done it for years and I'm good at it. Don't even think about it.”
Corcoran put his left hand on the man's left shoulder, let go of the wrist.
“Easy now. Slow and easy. We'll just walk inside, you'll do your job, and then I'll go away.
~ ~ ~ ~
Breakfast at the diner, then to the office. Corcoran pulled up to the curb, parked, got out, started to the door.
“Jesus loves you Mistah Corky.”
“Jesus don't give a rat's ass about me old man. Or you either.”
And through the door, the buzzer going off as long as the door was open. He walked towards the desk.
“Hey, I gotta go. Got a man comin' in. Call you later.” Reams looked directly into Corcoran's eyes, hung up the phone. Neither man blinked, neither man smiled, neither nodded. Corcoran's eyes were hard, empty, devoid of emotion. And dark. So dark most folks would think of them as black. Arresting eyes - but empty. Reams' eyes were ugly. The color of greed, the color of just don't give a damn. If asked, you couldn't say were those eyes brown or blue or green or gray. Not mean. Not nice. Just ugly.
Corcoran dropped the sack on the desk. Reams dug in it, took out twenty-five-hundred and handed it to Corcoran. “Thanks.”
Corcoran put the money in his wallet. “No problem. Anything else?”
“Not right now. I'll call you if I need you.”
Corcoran turned, walked to the door and out.
The morning was cool. End of summer, not yet fall. It would be hot this afternoon but now it wasn't quite so bad. The old man sat there on his bench.
“You read that scripture I gave you?”
“What?”
“The scripture? From the Bible? Luke 23:34?”
“Old man, you know I don't read no bibles. I know you got your life all tangled up amongst it - but that's you, not me.”
“Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. And they parted his raiment, and cast lots.”
“Mistah Corky, he was all tore up, beat so bad the meat was hanging off him. Nailed to a tree and fixin' to die. And what do he say?”
“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
“Nigger, I've just about got all that crap I want. You hear?”
“Jesus loves you son. And so do I.”
Corcoran threw down his cigarette, stalked to the car, got in, started the engine and squealed the tires pulling into the traffic, causing a city bus to slam his brakes.
Corcoran steamed and drove. Furious at the old man for pushin' that stuff on him. Furious with himself for his reaction.
“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
“Yeah, right.” Corcoran had hurt a lot of men - and seen a lot of others hurt. Hadn't none of them said nuthin even remotely like that. They cursed, they cried, they threatened and they begged, but what they did the most of all was not say nuthin 'bout forgivin'.
Stupid, stupid old man.
And then there was Barbara.
He knew the girl loved him. But he didn't know why. It didn't make a lick of sense. He'd asked her and she'd said something about a thing called “Grace” but he just couldn't get a handle on it.
But that church thing? Every Sunday morning. Every Sunday night. And Wednesday nights too. What did she call it? “Prayer meeting?”
No, she didn't push it on him. Didn't aggravate him with it the way that Preacher did. Not a word unless he asked. And he had a few times. She would quietly and calmly try her best to answer - but she'd hush the instant that she saw he'd got enough.
Damn that old man.
He turned onto Twenty-second Street Causeway at the estuary, headed for the Sea Breeze. Pulled into the gravel parking lot. Went in and got a sack of deviled crabs, a bottle of Louisiana Hot Sauce and an ice-cold bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Then out. He walked through the sand and sand-spurs, through the dappled shade beneath the Australian pines and over to the seawall. Sat down, dangling his feet over the side. Ate his deviled crabs and drank his beer while staring at the oily sheen on the dark scud-covered water of the ships' channel. He thought about the ships. Tramp steamers from ports around the world. Japanese cargo ships, their names all ending with Maru. Small ships from Honduras bringing fresh bananas, tarantulas and the occasional boa constrictor. Coal ships, from one of them yankee states up north, to fuel the power company's boilers.
He sat and ate the crabs and thought. Barbara. Preacher. All that Jesus talk. The job that he'd just done. The next one, whatever it might be. He ate the crabs and thought.
“If you don't know that it's a sin, it ain't.”
“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
No more crabs. He washed the crabs and hot sauce from his palette with the beer, no longer cold but not yet warm. He stood up from the seawall, walked up the slope to the back of the restaurant, disposed of his trash, went back to the car and headed home, the anger abated, just looking forward now to bed and then to Barbara's return once she got the shop shut down.
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