Free Monday Night Man by Grant Buday Page B

feels the flicker of the child’s pulse. Star presses in with a trembling fingertip, trying to capture that elusive twitch of life, but Karla murmurs then rolls away into the blankets, dreaming of horses.

BUNCE HAD ALREADY been before the Law arguing his right to take his daughters to the horse races. He argued well. Bunce was Irish and could call up the accent and raise his diction to aristocratic heights. “Whataya” became “what do you.” “Should” became “shall.” “Gotta” became “must.” “Hey you” became “sir.” When Bunce put on the voice people listened. Cops, waiters, thugs all hesitated and glanced around, unsure what they were dealing with.
    Though sometimes it backfired.
    One night in Boyle Rupp’s Bug they got caught in a roadblock. Bunce took charge.
    â€œSir. I’m an MA in Philosophy and a member of the Diamond Club. I assure you this wretch has imbibed no alcoholic products and therefore enjoys full command of his admittedly meagre faculties.”
    The cop had shifted his flashlight from Rupp to Bunce. When Bunce finished, the cop said, “Get outta the car. Alla ya.”
    Bunce, Rupp, and Horst stood spreadeagled in the rain against the Bug while the cop sat in the squad car checking their records.
    â€œFuck, Bunce!”
    â€œRupp. Compose yourself Cup your hands around the flame of your spirit and it will grow tall even in the most adverse wind.”
    The cop informed Rupp there were three hundred dollars in outstanding traffic violations against his licence. He impounded the car.
    It cost Rupp seventy-five to get the Bug back after paying off the three hundred. He demanded Bunce pay half.
    â€œRupp, see a psychiatrist.”
    â€œIt’s your fault!”
    â€œDid I rack up three hundred in tickets?”
    â€œThey’d of never found out if you hadn’t butted in.”
    â€œIt was only a matter of time.”
    â€œYou cheap bastard.”
    â€œRupp. It’s not money, but principle. From the Latin principium. In Christian Science, another word for God.”

BROTHERLY
LOVE
    R upp announced he was buying a church.
    Bunce pointed out that Blue Sky was jumping from 4000 to 10,000 off a loss. Very suspicious.
    Horst stared harder out the grimed window of Wally’s Cafe. A semi hauling chickens stopped in the traffic. Chickens crammed so tight in wire cages only their eyes moved, blinking stupidly on their way to the slaughterhouse. That’s what we are, thought Horst. He’d just turned thirty-nine and was inclined to the morbid.
    Bunce tapped his Racing Form with his red pen. He smelled a rat. “4000 to 10,000 off a loss. Somebody knows something.”
    Horst said, “Whataya mean, a church?”
    â€œA church. You know.”
    â€œYou can’t buy a church.”
    â€œThere’s a sign. I phoned.”
    Bunce circled Blue Sky. “As long as it’s deconsecrated, a church is nothing but real estate.”
    â€œDeconsecrated. Yeah. That’s what the priest said.”
    Wally appeared, coffee swaying like black paint in the pyrex pot.
    Horst said, “Hey Wally. You go to church?”
    â€œChurch? I was fucking altar boy. Hong Kong R.C.” He refilled their cups then threw down three creamers.
    Bunce decided to indulge Rupp. “Pray, what wouldst thou with a church?”
    â€œIt’s a gold mine.”
    Bunce smiled.
    Horst snorted.
    Rupp said, “You gonna be track bums the rest of your life? Look at you! Countin’ quarters. You gotta have imagination!”
    Horst was insulted. Imagination? Since when did Rupp have imagination? Horst’s head was a Mediterranean maze of topiaried shrubs, Florentine fountains, odalisques reclining on trimmed turf. Sure, his apartment faced an alley strewn with the guts of split green garbage bags. But yesterday he’d bought himself a suit at Value Village for fifteen bucks. Tailor-made in