Tears on a Sunday Afternoon - Michael Presley [15]
“Your old man is a work of art,” Bill said, taking a seat opposite me.
“How so?”
“Let’s just say age has done nothing to calm him down.” Bill leaned away from the table as the waitress put the drinks down.
She gave me an eye lashing, or an invitation, and quickly removed herself from our presence. I reached into my jacket pocket, took out a small brown envelope and handed it to Bill. It was the balance of the twenty thousand dollars I had promised him to complete the job.
I opened the envelope and pulled out the pictures of my father. My father was a tall, old man whose face seemed to have been battered by life. His eyes were red and droopy as if alcohol had been his best companion for many years. I pushed the pictures back into the envelope for fear that the anger building up inside of me would become visible.
“Did you bring the other thing?” I asked, hoping that there was no detectable cracking in my voice.
“Donald, we’ve become almost friends through our transaction. While I can’t empathize with you, I do understand the hurt. Now, remember, you have a child and that means you have a responsibility to that child. It’s not my place to tell you what to do. My job is done here but I don’t want to see you get hurt. Whatever you do, do it carefully. I’ve put some additional information in the package for a one-on-one meeting with your father. Whatever you do, make sure you cover your tracks. There’s a lot of hate in your father and you’ll certainly encounter that when you meet him. Be careful.”
I felt a slight touch on my knee and Bill motioned for me to reach under the table. I reached down and I felt the cold steel of the 9 millimeter handgun in my hand. In my other hand, he placed a box of shells. Excitement ran through my veins, as I became empowered by the life-ending piece of machinery in my possession.
“This is powerful.” I slipped it into my waistband and quickly buttoned my jacket.
“I’ve preloaded it for you so you have to be very careful. Here are instructions and everything else you need to know to shoot and maintain this gun. The safety is on so there’s no danger of an accidental firing. Remember, guns don’t kill people; people shoot guns that kill people.” Bill stopped to take a swig of his beer.
I flipped through the manual. “This reads like an owner’s manual for a new DVD player or something.”
“I don’t think they make DVDs that kill people as yet. But all the information you have in your hand is available on the internet.”
“Here you go.” I gave Bill another envelope containing $2,000 for the gun.
He put it in his pocket.
“Are you going to count it?” I asked.
“When doing certain transactions, you never count. I don’t think you’ll short me a buck or two.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Well, it was a pleasure doing business with you and feel free to contact me if you need some more assistance.” Bill stretched his hand out.
I shook Bill’s hand and watched as he went from shade to light. In his wake he had not only left me with answers to my troubled life but also with questions of what to do with the answers. I had already paid for the drinks so I left a ten-dollar bill on the table for the tip. As I was walking out the door, I looked over at the waitress who was conversing with the bartender. Her looks and the revealing clothes she wore got her attention; for how long depended on the giver of the attention. Maybe, for some, the attention was only for the night. For others, it might be the possible replacement for a lifeless love at home. And there was always that one person who would want to take her into his world. To me, she would only be good if she got me through the night. Yeah, all I wanted was to get through the night and wake up to see another day. I smiled at her and she waved at me. Yeah, she understood; time had decided.
It was nine-thirty when