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Fiction Short Story

by C.F. Ciccozzi

Bank On It

"You must be Texas Jim," I say to the burly man behind the counter, who glares then chomps down on his unlit stogie. "You serve breakfast?" Texas Jim grunts, unfolds his hairy arms, and pushes away from the back counter. Beefy hands slap a menu in front of me.

He brings my order, folds his arms across his barrel chest, and resumes his position against the back counter where he watches me eat. I'm uncomfortable. Between bites of hockey puck-like sausage and overdone medium eggs, I attempt small talk. "Texas Jim's Bar & Grill, how original."

Texas Jim frowns and clamps down harder on his stogie. "You got a problem with the name of my establishment, boy?"

Surprised by his reaction I match his belligerent expression, having learned long ago not to take crap from anybody. "What are you going to do about it?"

Texas Jim resembles a giant pit bull as he again pushes away from the back counter to move within inches of my face. I put my fork down and lean into his glare, expression as fierce as his. A few tense seconds pass before he lets out a belly laugh, slaps me on the shoulder, and says, "I like you, son; you got guts! Fresh coffee comin' up." Apparently I passed some sort of test.

The "fresh roasted" aroma wafts as he refills my cup and says, "What kinda work do you do?" I tell him I'm an author. "I didn't ask your name, son, I asked how you make money." I grin, thinking the man's joking. He's not.

"Um, I make up stories about people."

Texas Jim frowns. "And you get paid for that?"

I nod. "Quite a bit and it beats taking orders from some chump on a power trip."

"I hear ya, son," Texas Jim nods. "I used to run that bank over yonder till I got sick of wearin' suits and kissin' rich peoples' backsides." Saying he wore pink tights and a tutu would be more believable.

I watch him pull a fresh cigar out of his shirt pocket, remove the paper and replace the gnarly-looking stub. Clenching the clean stogie between his teeth, he says, "I bought this place almost twenty years ago and haven't regretted it a second. It's quiet in the mornings, but the joint starts hopping around lunchtime and gets packed on live band nights. That's when I really rake in the dough. I had a group in here last night that shook the rafters. Man, did that fiddle player know what he was doing!"

I see the gleam in Texas Jim's eye and notice the frown has been replaced with what I can only assume is a smile. "So what's the downside?"

One bushy eyebrow shoots upward. "Hell, that's easy," he says. "Findin' good help. Places like this have a high turnover, so you're constantly training new people, mostly kids. Then it's double-duty when the irresponsible little shits don't show up. And that's just out here; you wouldn't believe the incompetence in the back office! But hell, at least she can cook."

It's my turn to frown. "If the lady's incompetent, why don't you hire someone else?"

"Creature of habit, I suppose. Mildred's been with me goin' on 18 years now. She's the stupidest damned woman I ever laid eyes on, but we have a good working relationship." He laughs. "Translation: I say how high and she jumps. I'm telling you, the woman's scared of her own shadow. Never even asked me for a raise."

I wash down a bite of burnt toast. "But you've given her raises anyway, right?"

He shakes his head. "Oh, hell no. If she hasn't got the guts to ask, then I'm not volunteering. Why should I?" My eyebrows lift as I think of a number of reasons, but the man's not finished. "She should ask! Her damned car's fallin' apart. She has to leave the engine running when she stops at the store or she'll never get it started again. And another thing - she never takes a vacation. Alls I got to do is tell her I can't let her take off cause I need her here and you know what she does? Hangs her head and backs outta the room sayin' 'yes sir, thank you sir, sorry, sir' about a hundred and fifty times. Drives me nuts." He lets out a heavy sigh, as if the weight of the world is on his broad shoulders. "I swear the woman's so damned stupid, she has to study for an eye exam. She's lucky I put up with her; anybody else would of fired her on her 20th 'sorry'."

I hear a door creak. A woman enters from the back area, hands twisting. She wears glasses, a matronly dress, and "sensible" shoes. Her eyes flit from Texas Jim to me and back again. He ignores her. She creeps closer and softly clears her throat. As Texas Jim refills my coffee cup yet again, I look at the woman and smile. Her eyes flit to mine then dart away, hands twisting faster. Texas Jim puts the coffee pot back on the burner and barks, "What?" I jerk and coffee splashes out of the cup I've raised to my lips, but my reaction is mild. The woman nearly jumps out of her skin. It's the first time I've seen a cliché in action.

"I, um, er." Her hand clutches at her throat.

Texas Jim glares. "Well spit it out, woman." Mildred glances in my direction. Texas Jim booms, "Speak!"

Her entire body jerks, but she finds her voice and says, "Would it be alright if I take off tomorrow? Mother's going in for surgery and her doctor thinks I should be there."

"Her doctor thinks I should be there," Texas Jim mocks. "Well guess what? I think you should be here! You know what happens on Mondays, and you know I can't do it when I'm stuck behind the counter."

Mildred's shoulders slump. She fidgets, thinking aloud, "Maybe I can go to the Liquor Barn for your cigars, make the bank deposit, and take an early lunch to go to the hospital."

Texas Jim says, "I don't give a damn what you do on your lunch hour, so long as you remember it's a lunch hour." Then he says, "Wait. Swing back here after you go to the bank; I don't wanna have to wait for my cigars."

Mildred backs out of the room, saying, "Yes sir, sorry sir, thank you sir."

I wipe the spilled coffee from my cup and decide to stroke Texas Jim's ego, even though I'd prefer to punch his lights out. "You're a fascinating guy, the kind I'd like to write about. The way you make that lady hop, skip, and jump is something!"

He puffs up like a rooster. "Hey! If somebody wants to be a doormat, I have no problem walking all over 'em."

I stroke my chin as I ponder his words. "Hm," I say, "I wonder what happens the day you walk all over the wrong person." Texas Jim's eyes roll skyward.

"Oh, it will happen, my friend; you can take that to the bank." Texas Jim laughs as I stand and toss money on the counter.

"Is that suppose to mean I'm gonna get an ass-kickin'?"

I throw a couple extra dollars down for a tip and say, "I prefer to call it Karma, but I suppose your terminology is adequate, in an earthy sort of way. The interesting thing about Karma is that it catches up to all of us eventually."

Texas Jim chuckles. "Well son, when it comes, if it does, I'll make Mildred stand outside and sell tickets!"

I leave the Bar & Grill, head buzzing with insight as to what will happen over the next few weeks. I see it as clearly as the compact car I rented for cash under an assumed name:

Today I'll plug in my laptop, type two notes, and print both. I'll put one in an envelope and seal it for delivery in the not-too-distant future.

Tomorrow morning, Mildred's preoccupied, worried over her mother's pending operation. She stops at the Liquor Barn for Texas Jim's cigars and leaves the engine running. She comes out of the store only to discover that her car is gone and with it, the bank deposit she left on the front seat. I can see the color drain from her face as she frantically looks for her missing vehicle. I wish I didn't have to put her through that, but the scenario won't work any other way.

Tuesday morning's newspaper splashes Mildred's nightmare across the front page. The story details her stolen car and how she lost Texas Jim's deposit, the cash part of which totals $62,791.23.

The next day an anonymous tip from me, now three states away, leads the police to discover Mildred's car abandoned two towns over from hers. It's been stripped clean, except for a note addressed to Texas Jim that reads simply, "Karma".

Two weeks after that, Mildred receives a delivery by special courier. It contains $50,000 and a note that reads:

"You're free to call the police, who will promptly confiscate this letter and cash, leaving you with nothing. Personally, I believe you deserve every penny of what I consider to be 'Texas Jim combat pay'. The choice is yours."

I trust she'll choose wisely. As for me, I'll keep the remaining $12,791.23 and continue to make up stories about the fascinating people I meet in my travels.


About the Author
C.F. Ciccozzi resides in California with a better than "better half" and two cats that rule the roost. Author of many short stories, this is the third to be published. The inspiration for "Bank On It" came from a Writers' Village University Booster class taken earlier this year. C.F. Ciccozzi can be reached at cfc1020@yahoo.com.