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

you… about ever calling me here? Or… for God’s sakes… even fucking coming here? Now get your miserable ass on home! Or wherever it is… that you wanna be! Wherever you wanna be… besides being fucking here! Whatever it is… it ain’t fucking gonna be here!”

“Manny!” He’d never heard her use that tone of voice before! Not that he’d ever been particularly adept—at analyzing tones of voice (anyone’s tone of voice)—in the past. Nor had he ever been the least bit concerned—about such bothersome, get-in-the-way, things. “You gotta see me! You simply gotta!”

“I don’t gotta do anything! Now, haul your worthless ass . . . the hell on outta here!”

“I’d threaten you! Tell you… that I was gonna scream! Except that… coming from here . . . it probably wouldn’t mean a thing! No reaction . . . whatsoever! Not coming from this goat’s nest! But, you’d still better let me in! Or I’ll make more goddam trouble for you… than you’d ever wanna fuckin’ know about! Now, let me the hell in!”

“Fuck,” he muttered—and cleared away from the door. “C’mon fucking in!”

She accepted his demure, ever-so-polite, invitation—and pushed her way into his dismal, foul-smelling, apartment.

“I see someone has already sprayed a valentine, for you! On your front door,” she noted—as she hurried to the old dark-green leatherette couch, in front of the four, street-side, windows.”

“Yeah,” he snarled. “Can’t get the shit off!. Not entirely anyway! Scrubbed on the fucking thing for… shit . . . for hours! Now what the hell do you want, Bimbo?”

“Money, Manny! What else?”

“Yeah. Stupid question! Well, I don’t got any! And… even if I did . . . you’d be the last person, that I’d throw some at! Last person… in the whole goddam world . . . that I’d throw some money at! Now, get your dead ass… the hell on out of here!”

“You can’t throw me off, like this, Manny! Like some damn old shoe, or something!”

“You wouldn’t even make a halfway-decent old shoe. I told you: We’re fucking through!”

“Manny! I don’t know where Jason is. I don’t have any money! I need . . . I need a few bucks! Just a few! Thirty-five or forty! That’s all! And then, I’ll leave ya alone!”

“Yeah. Until the next time… next time . . . you get a wild hair up your ass! How do you suppose… suppose you’re gonna manage? For food and shit? Your beer and cigarettes? How you gonna manage all that . . . for the rest, of the goddam month? How you gonna keep yourself in smokes . . . and in alcohol . . . till you get your Social Security check? You’ll be back for more! You bet your sweet ass . . . that you’ll try and hit me up again! And again! And again and again and a-fucking-gain! It’d be like me, actually throwing fucking money . . . throwing it, down the fucking rat-hole! Besides, I ain’t got any goddam money!”

“Look, Manny.” Her voice had taken on an unmistakable pleading tone. A tear trickled down her right cheek. “I don’t have anything ‘on’ you! Nothin’ I can blackmail you with! I’m dependant . . . totally dependant . . . on you! And your good nature!”

“Yeah,” he answered with a cynical smile. “My fucking good nature! Well, I’m askin’ ya… good natured-like, y’know… to drag your soggy old ass the hell on outta here!”

“Manny. I… look. I gave you a lot of good nights! I lot of good buggy rides! I was devoted to you! I really was! That ought to be worth something! I’m in trouble . . . bad trouble… Manny! I’m going to damn starve! Can’t you throw me… just a few bucks? I promise I won’t buy . . . any smokes or beer! I need food, Manny! I really do! Food! Otherwise, I’ll freaking starve!”

“Shit,” muttered her genial host. “Fucking shit!”

He fumbled into his pocket—and pulled out six or eight crinkled currency notes. He spied two tens and a five—and, literally, threw them, at his beleaguered “guest”!

“Here, goddam it! Here! Take fucking these! And haul that corrupt ass of yours… drag it, on out of here! And ya don’t have to fucking limp! Not for my benefit, anyway!”

The money had landed—on the floor. Sheila hastened to, very quickly—very adeptly—swoop down, and snatch up the bills! Then, she smiled—broadly—and, saying nothing further, she hurried from the apartment!

Manny closed—and locked—the still-defaced door. Then, he meandered over to the windows—and looked down at the street.

He was most assuredly surprised, when he spied the woman—with whom he’d been “entangled” for years (and whom he was positive he knew like the proverbial book)—getting into a late-model Buick!

The following Saturday night—while the 7:00PM Mass was being celebrated, inside Sacred Heart Catholic Church, on Michigan Avenue—a forty-something woman was busily removing the license plates from a 1997 Jeep Grand Cherokee SUV. The vehicle had been located—smack in the middle, of the church’s immense parking lot. The purpose, of the remote location was simple: Being surrounded, by dozens of cars—the chosen spot had offered the least-observable venue.

That same night—well after midnight—that same woman was removing the plates, from a 1998 Buick! And replacing them—with the recently-acquired tags from the SUV!

The Buick had been parked—numerous times—on a side street, around the corner, and about a half-block, from Sheila Rutkowski’s dismal apartment!

FIFTEEN

This would be the, long-awaited, occasion—of Jason Rutkowski’s first “real, bona fide,” date! He would meet Valerie Krenwinkle—at 7:00PM! They would “rendezvous” at that same, venerable, confectionary! From there, they would walk the four or five blocks to The Great Lakes Theater. The feature—was reputed to be a “blockbuster”: You’ll Never Get Rich—starring Rita Hayworth and Fred Astaire.

When the date had been “negotiated”, Jason had figured that he’d “pick Valery up”—pedestrian-style—at her parents’ home. But, instead, she’d insisted that they get together—at the place where they’d first met!

But, why? Our Hero’s self-image—obviously, never the best—took a bit of a hit! Was she ashamed of him? Wouldn’t, maybe, want to risk the very possible disapproval—of her parents? Could that be it?

Susan had tried, valiantly, to buck him up: “Never try and figure out… what a woman is thinking. Any woman. I’m a woman. And, half the time, even I don’t know what