"The Druckenmiller Affair: Part I"

A Story by Raef

First installment, any thoughts welcome!

May 5th, 2015,

5:30 pm, Central Time

Twenty-five miles from Ridgewood County

"You've gotta keep up, buddy. Can't do this without you."

Silence from behind him.

"Don't think you've been this quiet since that party with the twins." He smiled as he remembered one particular event.

"I don't think they've ever been as out of it as they were when they tried to give that cactus the Heimlich. God damn..."

The view from the trail was minor; the partial wood to the right consisted of various fauna. All trees, though. Not a single blade, stalk or growth of any sort. To the left was the sheer face of the rocky hill.

"That was a good day, man."

He stopped, and the footsteps behind him stopped as well as he turned.

"That was a good day."

-One Day, Sixty Years and However Many Hours and Minutes Earlier-

May 5th, 1955,

11:12 am, Central Time

In the café of the Hotel Luske

"Warren, come on."

"Damn it I said no already." He clicked his spoon against the crystal, matching the rhythm of a passing waiter's step.

"Come on, man."

He looked over his shoulder, eying the people already looking him over.

"I thought you said that this was a good place to talk."

"That I did."

"Well, we've talked." His spoon sped to match the tempo of some quicker, flightier thing.

"Look, it's just one favor. Just a favor."

Warren looked down into his lap.

Mr. Bourgeois sighed and stood.

"Alright, I get it." He reached into his pocket and took out a bill. "Some things are just too much to ask for."

He dropped it into his unfinished coffee.

"Nice talking to you." He walked through the doorway that led back into the hotel.

Warren sat watching the paper slowly soaking in the coffee. He looked down at his now still hand, and then felt the lump in his pocket.

Five thousand dollars... And for what?

He turned and looked out through the café's front window.

Who the hell's going to be up there?

In the distance, the hill, a mole hill to a mountain, really, loomed. He sighed as he pulled out his billfold.

Why me?

May 5th, 1955

8:45 am, Central Time

Down the road, above a shop by the name of Huett's General Store

The smoke cleared, the face of his wife between his palms as he pushed the revolver from her hands with his knee. She was strangely still despite the tears that ran down her face.

"Bertha." Mr. Huett, already typing quickly, began to work the keys more intensely.

As the gun fell and the echoing of the gunshot ceased, Sullivan felt a searing pain in his gut. He crumpled, his wife falling with him. Lost in her own world, this movement was not enough to bring her to her senses.

"Bertha." Huett could see that he was running out of room; on his right was a stack of papers already heavy with letters, and to his left was his nonexistent pile of blank paper. He had about half the page left as he felt around his desk for a rogue sheet with one hand and continued typing with the other.

The detective emerged from the swirling smoke, his tie a color that entranced Sullivan. A blue, yet a green, yet a gray. It was a far-cry from the traditional, but still it reminded him of, strangely, his youth. What was even stranger, he thought to himself, was why he was thinking about a god damn tie as his stomach leaked blood onto his shell-shocked wife.

"Bertha." He was near the end now.

"Sullivan?"

"Bertha?"

"What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be

No more room, now.

"BERTHA. WHERE IN THE HOLY F*****G GHOST ARE YOU."

"ON THE F*****G CRAPPER."

Huett balked in the general direction of his wife's screeching. His hands, not able to type any longer and itching for activity, began rubbing the chain around his neck.

"Damn it, woman, I need more paper!"

"The hell you do; I'm the one who needs more paper!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" He stood and walked out of the bedroom into the kitchen/living room/dining room.

"WE'RE OUT OF TOILET PAPER AND I NEED SOME OR I'M GOING TO USE ONE OF YOUR SHIRTS."

"BERTHA, IF ANY OF THOSE SHIRTS EVEN GETS CLOSE TO YOUR FAT A*S I WILL-!"

"YOU, HUH? GET YOUR SCRAWNY A*S DOWN TO THE STORE AND GET ME SOME PAPER OR I'LL USE YOUR DAMN MANUSCRIPT TO LINE THE WALLS."

Huett grabbed his coat from where he left it; the floor.

"Where the hell is the stationary?"

"I'll tell you once I've got a few layers of paper between me and my a*s, now hurry it up!"

Jesus Christ, he thought to himself as he found his hat between the couch and the wall. Maybe I should just hide back here.

"I'll be back," He called over his shoulder as he opened the door. "Don't die".

"I wouldn't count on it, sick-o," Bertha replied as the door closed behind him.

May 5th, 1955

8:45 am, Central Time

Outside of Huett's

"It'll be fine, Joe. Trust me."

Joe sighed. "How the hell would you know? How the hell am I supposed to ask for a favor like this? I've been working for him for less than a month and I'm already asking him for more god damn money."

He heard screaming from above Mister Huett's store. Probably his boss and his wife having their usual bout. He leaned against the glass of the window, then thought better of it, not wanting to mar the shining surface with whatever grime he may have picked up on the way to his job. It appeared that he had indeed done something to smudge the surface, and he proceeded to use his sleeve to rub it out, cursing under his breath and using his saliva to shine the glass. His eyes wandered to the old letters above his head:

Huett's General Store

He finished and leaned his head against the brickwork of the building.

"I'm sure he'll understand. I mean, you've been doing pretty well, haven't you? Cleaning... Floors. Restocking. Erm, helping people in general." Warren looked up at the second floor of the building.

Joe thought back to the look on Helen's face. He grimaced. I need that ring.

"I've gotta do it. If he doesn't say yes... I'll just sell the truck."

Warren interjected there: "Whoah, buddy. You're not the only one who uses that thing. That's my only way of getting around while I'm in town. Sell it after I leave, got it?"

Joe wasn't listening, and was instead trying to come up with a half-way decent way of going about this:

Joe: Hello, Mr. Huett! Wonderful day, isn't it? Yes, yes, I know, I know. So, I was wondering if I could get an advancement on my paycheque. Or perhaps-

Huett: No.

Joe shook his head. I think I'm just self-destructive.

He slid to the floor, scraping his back against the uneven wall. Yupp, self-destructive, he thought to himself as he tentatively touched his now-tender back.

He blew as much air out of his lungs as he could, then started to try and whistle. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Warren rolling a cigarette. Well, trying to.

"Want some help?"

Warren clicked his tongue and shook his head. "No, no I don't. I don't want to have to come to you when I want a decently rolled cigarette."

Joe leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. "Why don't you just buy packs instead of trying to roll 'em, then?"

Warren walked over to where he sat and thrust his mess into Joe's hands. "Here."

The corner of Joe's mouth turned up. He looked down and blew more air out of his mouth.

"Gosh, look at this. You're not supposed t-"

The door to the store came open then with the familiar jingle, this time supplemented by a ring of keys.

Mr. Huett stepped out into the morning, blinking as he did so, looking somewhat like one of the several stray cats that roamed the streets. After a few seconds he noticed that he wasn't alone.

"Oh, Joe. Earlier than usual. Not saying you're ever late, but, it's just... Earlier. Than usual."

Joe pushed off of the wall in order to get to his feet quicker, knocking the poorly rolled cigarette and tobacco to the ground.

"Damn it, Joe." Warren knelt to try and salvage the mess.

"Mister Huett! I-I... I was wondering... Do you have a-"

"Well, Joe, if you could start by tidying up and making sure everything is fully stocked, I would appreciate it. Also, just make sure everything is ship-shape in the back. I need to run down to the market to pick up, erm, something. I'll be back in a few minutes. Thank you!"

By the time he finished his over-the-shoulder, one-sided conversation, he was already around the corner.

Joe visibly deflated as Warren gave up on his pile of tobacco. He got to his feet and walked over to his friend.

"Look, your time will come. Just don't try to rush it."

Joe shook his head. "I need that money by this Friday, Warren."

Warren was quiet for a few minutes. He sighed and gave Joe a one-armed hug.

"I'll let you get to work. The Hotel Lusk is in the next town over, right?"

"Yeah, it's over in Ridgewood. If you need the truck, just be careful. Might have to sell it." He walked over to the door of Huett's, throwing a weak "goodbye" over his shoulder as he entered the shop to the sound of bells.

Warren laughed and called after his friend: "Joe, it's me. I don't do anything."

Warren turned and began walking down the road in the direction of home, trying to put his thoughts about his friend's problems to rest; he had his own problems to deal with.

As he walked, he noticed a cat making his way across a picket fence. Gray tabby.

At that moment, a thought occurred to him, which he voiced aloud for no apparent reason:

"Damn it, I need a cigarette."