Locomotive to the Past by George Schultz (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Six or seven minutes later, he noted Eric’s Nash—as it wheeled in, close by the front door. He was convinced that he’d, never before, laid eyes, on the immense—long and narrow—light-green 1938 Buick, which pulled up, alongside the Nash! He could not remember ever having actually seen—a ’38 Buick four-door sedan, of any sort. This one was particularly impressive.

A heavyset, fifty-something, slightly-balding, man joined Eric—and both of them entered the eatery, together! His former landlord nodded his head toward one of the booths, in the semi-filled restaurant—and the three men “landed” there. Quickly!

The hamburger joint furnished no waiter, or waitress—so, the newcomer shouted, to one of the two fry-cooks, an order of three hamburgers, and a like-number of coffees.

Eric wasted no time—in getting down to business. “Jason,” he began, “this is Nicholas Stainback. We go back a long way. Longer than I really care to remember. He’s the security head… for the whole damn project, here. He was, actually, instrumental . . . exceedingly instrumental… in our hokey little company, getting our share! Our share… of the housing thing! And what he has to say . . . to say to you… is critical! Could turn out… to be, actually, a matter of life and death!” His eyes narrowed on those, of an attentive Jason. “Critical”, he repeated. “Critical… as hell!”

“Nice to meet you, Jason,” grumped Nicholas. His gravelly voice was akin to a rusty file. “Listen,” he resumed. “Listen to me, Kid! Listen good! This guy… this Stackhouse… he’s bad fuckin’ news! I know him! Know him well! We went to school together! From… I dunno… from nineteen-eleven on! We always seemed to wind up sitting next to one another… because our names were, always, side-by-each, alphabetically. He’s a mean… merciless . . . son of a bitch! Our paths have crossed… over the years! Many times! Many times! Stay away from him! Way away from him! From what I hear, you may have won a heavy bet from him! You ain’t never gonna collect on it! Just write it fuckin’ off! Chalk it up . . . to the ol’ ‘education fund’! And keep your young ass away from him! Like I say… way away from him! The farther . . . the better!”

It was at that point—that the cook signaled that the trio’s order was ready. Eric sauntered over to the counter, paid for the food and beverages—and delivered the “nutritional” load, to his two cohorts.

Nothing else was actually said. The three sat—in, virtual-total, silence—until the food was gone! Nicholas had “seriously” wolfed his burger down! Then, he’d—immediately—left!

The remaining pair finished shortly thereafter. They’d not spoken more than two or three words! The proclamations—that the heavy-set interloper had lain, on him—had been sufficient, to frighten the already-badly-shaken young man! More than sufficient!

That evening, a somewhat-recovered Jason had snapped back enough—that he could, at least, operate. In a, halfway-logical, manner, anyway.

He phoned Valerie—who’d quickly detected the tenseness still remaining, in his, still-rattled, tone of voice!

“Jason!” she spouted—about 10 seconds into the conversation. “What’s wrong?”

He did his best to assure her—that nothing was bothering him! It resulted, in the very first time—that he’d ever heard her use the word “bullshit!”.

“Listen to me, Jason,” she’d admonished—in a tone, that could best be described as close to the top of her voice, “I’m scared! Absolutely frightened! Of all the things… that have been happening, of late! Now, no kidding around! I’m all through . . . fooling around, in this matter! Now, you tell me, Jason! You’d better tell me! What the hell’s going on? And I want the truth! You keep trying to spare me… I’m sure! Listen, I’m a big girl! I can deal with it! But, I… damn sure . . . want to know! Want to know… what it is! What it is… that I’m dealing with! That you’re dealing with! Dammit… what we’re dealing with! Unless you want me out! Out of the mix! Out… completely! Maybe you really don’t . . . don’t really want to get married! Maybe you don’t…”

“Valerie? Will you stop, already, with that ‘don’t want to get married’ crap?”

He’d never spoken to her—in that manner—before! Not even close! A situation—of which she had been aware! Now—spectacularly—aware!

“I’m sorry, Val,” he hastened to add. “It’s just… ! Look! All right! Listen! This guy . . . the one, I’ve been dealing with… I just found out, today, that he’s positively deadly! Positively! And he’s not going to pay up!”

“Of course he’s not! He never intended to! That’s one thing I love about you, Jason! You’re so… so damn trusting! So damn innocent! But, you’re also so… so damn frustrating! Just write off . . . the stupid hundred dollars! Write it, the hell, off! It’s jolly well gone!”

“Yeah. I finally figured that out! But, not until I had a big confrontation with him… this morning!”

“Oh damn,” she gasped. “Oh my God!”

“So,” he rasped—having come down, from the top of the emotional mountain, “if I can just get away . . . with simply losing the hundred bucks… I think I’ll be all right!”

“Why don’t you go to the police?”

“I’ve thought of it! But… dammit… the schmuck, he never really made an actual, definite, threat! Not one that’s documentable!”

“Yeah,” she responded—glumly. “He damn well wouldn’t!”

“Well, I feel better . . . having unloaded on you!”

“‘Unloaded? You’re really upset, Jason! Aren’t you! You’re back to ‘talking… really funny’! Again!”

“I guess. Probably am.” He was still somewhat deflated. “But, I do feel better,” he managed to say, “Feel better… having talked with you.”

“Well, I’m glad that someone . . . or something . . . has helped,” she groused.

Two evenings later—Wednesday—Jason was on his way home from work. He’d not seen “hide nor hair”, of Hurley Stackhouse—since his confrontation, with the unprincipled bookie, had been taken over, by Eric. The man’s absence—had produced a “slightly-warming” effect, for Our Boy. Slightly!

As the troubled young man approached Plymouth Road and Mettetal Street, it occurred to him, that he’d needed a few groceries. The A&P, on that corner, had become his favorite store. He’d discovered it—once he’d established Plymouth Road, as his