Burn Scars, Eddie Generous [read full novel txt] 📗

Probably it was some kind of scam.

“I shouldn’t have told him where we live,” Rusty said.

“Maybe,” Christine said.

They ate and chatted. Rusty did most of the listening, a little stunned that he’d finally—fingers crossed—finished high school.

—

Sitting with emptied plates, Rusty about to step onto the outdoor staircase to light up and Christine sipping from a water glass, a knock landed on the door. Half an hour hadn’t passed since Rusty got off the telephone.

“You answer. I’m not hardly dressed,” Christine said and made a mad dash for the bedroom.

Rusty pushed to his feet. The kitchen table to the door was about nine and a third steps. He opened the door a crack and a balding man in a wool coat and Sorel boots that went almost to his knees waved a white package in a clear sleeve.

“Russell Talbot?”

“Rusty.”

“Rusty Talbot.”

“You the insurance guy?”

“That’s right.”

Rusty opened the door and the man stepped inside. He took a deep breath through his nose. “Ooh, some Italian. I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“No, we’re just finished.”

The man looked around. Alongside the envelope, he had some sales flyers and decided to pocket them as he fished inside his coat for a gold toned ballpoint pen. “I’ll just get you to sign the receipt and be out of your hair.”

“Okay.”

The man pulled away the sleeve and folded open the envelope. “I know it doesn’t replace a person, but hopefully it eases the loss.” He held the pen to the line next to the word beneficiary. Beneath the line was his name, typed out: Rusty Terence Talbot.

Rusty took the pen and the stiff envelope. He scanned until he found another name: Cary Robert Watson. “Oh, from Cary, but…?” he said, scrunching his face in confusion.

Christine hurried out of the bedroom in jeans and a tee, her hair in a clumsy ponytail. “What is it?”

“Hello,” the insurance man said.

Christine nodded and Rusty caught her eyes. “What?” she said.

“Cary had a life insurance policy with me as the beneficiary.” Rusty held out the envelope to see.

She spotted the number before all else. “Holy shit! Fifty grand?”

“I guess,” Rusty said and scribbled his name. “Less after tax, though, right?”

The insurance salesman smiled a moneymaking smile and said, “Individual policy proceeds are not taxable. The policy itself is taxed at purchase. I’m sorry for your loss.” He took the envelope and moved the pen to another line. “Sign here, too. It’s simply a receipt to say I delivered the check and I saw your identification.”

“You need my ID?” Rusty said.

“Nah.” The man tore two signed pages from the booklet and then separated the check from the first page. He then handed over the check and a business card. “Have a good day, and consider me if you’re ever thinking of your future, you know, when you’re steadier.”

“Uh, okay,” Rusty said.

Christine was wide-eyed and dumbfounded.

The man left and Rusty crossed the room to the telephone—a zombie seeking brains. Christine remained where she was, she was shaking a bit all over. Rusty dialled and then came to. He looked at Christine and gave her a small grin as the line rang.

“McDonald’s.”

“Hey, this is Rusty Talbot, can I talk to whoever’s in charge today?”

“This is Martin Bower. Let me guess, you’re,” he coughed twice, “dying of the flu.”

Rusty barked a laugh. “No siree Bob. I’m just peachy. Feel better than I have in…well, maybe better than I have in my whole fucking life.”

“Okay? So what?”

“I quit.”

“What?”

“Martin, you putz, I quit.” Rusty slammed the phone into its cradle and melted a little inside.

EPILOGUE

September 1982

Jessica Trainer backed into Leroy Talbot’s groin and bounced to the beat. The Trent was slow most nights, but Leroy treated the joint like a home base for every night on the town—he might end up elsewhere, but the Trent was where he’d start. The drinks were cheaper there and, now and then, some of the honeys from one of the three factories would come in, raring to go, purses heavy with paychecks.

He never eyed the prime cuts, always shot for the realistic targets because getting laid wasn’t the only point, being kept for the night and getting laid was the point. Jessica Trainer was maybe twenty and maybe twenty-five pounds overweight. She wore a bright pink shirt, and gold bangles on her wrists. Her jeans were tight enough to turn the extra dough around his middle into a muffin top.

Leroy’s kind of girl.

She’d spent half the night talking to Cary Watson and the jerkoff cop with the easy wife. Larry or Langdon or something like that. Lawrence was his last name for sure—he’d been mean mugging Leroy from the go, but he was in uniform, so what could he do, really? That uniform was a billboard.

Leroy wasn’t fazed, husbands and boyfriends, even some brothers, many men gave him that look and from all walks of life. Nine times out of ten, it meant nothing and on that tenth time, he’d love to bloody up a dance partner.

If he met up with Jeri-Lynn Lawrence again, they could practice mimicking the cop’s face while they went at it. Leroy was getting hard thinking about Jeri-Lynn while Jessica backed up on him. He kissed her neck and she spun sideways, grabbed the drink she’d bought him, put the straw to her lips, though didn’t appear to take a sip. She then pushed the drink to Leroy’s face.

“Let’s get wasted, baby!” she said.

Leroy took the glass, tossed the straw without losing step with the Stones track coming from the stereo, and then downed the drink. It had a weird aftertaste, but he felt the tingle play immediately and got over it.

“Strong one!” he shouted, just loud enough to be heard above the music.

“I wanna