Free Merlot by Mike Faricy Page B

bright. Thanks,” she said
waving briefly over her shoulder, too embarrassed to turn and look
at him. Her car sat alone in a far corner of the empty parking
lot.
    She was being let out of a bar at close to
six on a Sunday morning, the last drunk, swept out with the trash.
It was already warm and humid, the day had all the makings of being
beastly, just the thing for a hangover. Thankful that no one saw
her at this hour looking like death warmed over, she gingerly made
her way to her car.
    * * *
    Otto was waiting at a stoplight, on his way
to pick up his first truckload of bacon and batter. Other than a
city bus there wasn’t another vehicle around. For a brief moment he
toyed with the idea of running the light, but decided that with a
loaded forty-five in the front seat that wasn’t the best idea.
    It was about that time he spotted a woman
stumbling out of DiMento’s. He thought he recognized her, but
couldn’t place her. She looked like she’d had a hell of night.
Pasty skin, hair messed, clothes disheveled, he was reminded again
of those Saigon bar girls. He was thinking maybe she had stopped by
one of his stands and that got him thinking in terms of the fair,
which got him thinking cash deposits and that’s when he put it
together. The bank.
    She was a teller from the bank. The one he
always tried to talk with. The one who always seemed to turn the
other way or was busy whenever he stopped in. Hell, she’s just a
regular old party girl from the looks of things.
    * * *
    Things couldn’t have worked out better,
Merlot thought. He got the information he wanted, and Cindy was too
embarrassed to ever see him again. Which left only one problem. He
wanted to see her.
    She’s an adult, he reasoned driving home, if
she makes a habit of getting drunk all the time, well, who needs
that in their life? Still he had to take 49 percent of the blame.
It’s tough to count your drinks when someone is working to make
sure your glass is never empty. He might call her later, but right
now he had to get showered and cleaned up for his Sunday brunch
crowd.
    * * *
    Cindy dropped her purse, missed the
dining-room table by a good six inches. She was too tired to look
or care. She slipped off her shoes, tossed her ruined dress in the
general direction of a closet. Pulled the shades and was asleep as
soon as her head hit the pillow.
    * * *
    Osborne paced back and forth across his
office floor while Milton kept his nose buried in the middle of the
sports section. None of the dancers had reported for work.
Customers stared at an empty stage for Sunday’s ‘Brunch and
Buns’.
    “What is the point of clever promotion if
none of your employees arrive for work? Just who do they think is
going to entertain that rabble down there coming to view female
anatomy with their scrambled eggs?”
    It was a question Milton hoped was merely
rhetorical. He grasped the newspaper a little tighter. His right
hand felt stiff and hot this morning. The bite wound puffy and raw,
with a broader purplish tinge.
    “Milton, get up to the Fat Farm, have six of
them go down there and dance while I get this situation
straightened out.”
    “Dancers? From the Fat Farm? Are you
sure…?”
    “Will you please cooperate! I’m losing money
by the minute here and no one, no one seems to care. Will you
please, please not think, Milton. Just do as I ask, for God’s
sake.”
    When Milton returned twenty minutes later he
held no doubts as to the wisdom of Osborne’s decision. One minute
into Daphne from the Fat Farm dancing and the place had cleared
out.
    “And?” Osborne asked, standing imperiously
behind his desk.
    Milton shook his large head, aware of a new
throbbing in his swollen, purple hand.
    “Whatever do you mean? Speak!”
    “Everyone just ran out. They left.”
    “Ran out?”
    “Yeah, they ran out the door, left drinks on
the table, food on their plates. There’s still two guys sitting
close to the stage, but I think they’re just waiting for a cab