In
French, You Don’t Pronounce the R
by
Jon Wesick
Rich Chercher parked his Hyundai
by the curb and fed the hungry
meter. The stash of quarters in his glove box was nearly empty. He’d have to
replenish it at the bank soon. It was 8:00 AM and already the Albuquerque sun
was brutal as a debt collector’s heart.
The bell over the door tinkled
when he entered the diner and snagged
a menu. A handful of patrons in shorts and trucker caps sat at a counter that
gave them a view of the kitchen. Chercher slid into a booth. A waitress in
tangerine polyester approached with a carafe of coffee.
“What will you have?”
She filled his cup without asking.
“Migas with a side of
beans.”
“Red or green?”
“Make it Christmas.”
Chercher closed the menu and handed it back.
He was halfway through his eggs
and tortillas when she walked in. A
vape pen dangled from her lips and her eyebrows resembled the brush marks on a
Chinese scroll. She wore stiletto heels that could pierce Machiavelli’s liver
and fishnet stockings with a rip large enough to let a piranha through. He
caught a whiff of oleander when she passed. The woman sat facing the door at
the booth next to his.
“You can’t smoke
that in here.” The waitress gave a look that could
throw her out of a PTA meeting. “What can I get you?”
“Just coffee, thanks.”
The woman put her vape pen away. “What are
you having there?” she asked Chercher after the waitress left.
“Migas. It’s eggs
with tortilla strips.”
“Looks good.”
“You ought to try it.”
“I never eat before noon.”
She tore open four packs of sugar and
dumped them in her coffee along with creamer. Her black nail polish was chipped
and the skin around her nails was peeling. “Mind if I join you? I hate eating
alone.”
“But you’re not
eating,” Chercher said.
“Then I’ll try yours.”
She slid into the booth opposite him and
used his spoon to try some eggs. “Whew! Too spicy! I’m a wimp when it comes to chilies.
What’s your name?”
“Rich SHARE-SHAY.”
“How’s that spelled?”
Chercher spelled it out.
“Seems like you should
say SHARE-SHARE.”
“It’s French. You
don’t pronounce the “r” at the end,” Chercher
replied.
“French huh? I’ve
never been to France, but I watch all those
movies on TBS – Shoot the Piano Player, Elevator to the Gallows, Bob the
Gambler. I’m Annie by the way. Annie Wilde.” She held out a hand for Chercher
to shake. “So, what do you do, Rich Chercher?”
“I own an adobe mine out
near Sandia Heights.”
“Adobe mine?”
“Yeah, I have a hundred
people digging adobe from a mile beneath
the earth.”
“Get out of here! What
do you really do?”
“I make training videos
at Kirtland Air Force Base, force security,
sexual harassment, that kind of thing. How about you?”
Annie’s eyes went wide.
“Oh shit! Don’t
let him know I’m here.” She ran for the ladies’
room.
Chercher turned to see a man
in a denim vest enter. He was big,
maybe six foot four and had prison tattoos on his neck. Chercher slipped
Annie’s lipstick-stained coffee cup off the table and set it on the floor.
“May I help you?”
the waitress said to the intruder who ignored her
and headed toward the bathrooms.
“Bathrooms are for customers
only. If you’re not going to order,
you’ll have to leave,” the waitress said.
“Hey!” A patron
with a beer belly and wallet chain stood. “The lady
said leave!”
More customers stood and the
intruder left.
“Is he gone?” Annie
asked after she returned.
“Yeah.”
“I hope it’s not
too much trouble, but could you drive me to my
hotel? I’m afraid that creep might still be out there.”
“Sure.” Chercher
paid the check and escorted Annie to his Hyundai.
“Who is that guy, anyway?” he asked once they’d set out.
“Tuco’s my ex. I
divorced him when he was in jail, but he still
thinks he owns me.”
“Why don’t you go
to the police?”
“He’s a drug dealer
and I don’t know how many of them he’s paid
off. Plus, I haven’t exactly been a good girl. No, I just need to get some cash
together so I can get out of town.”
“Can I help?”
“You’re sweet.”
Annie touched Chercher’s forearm. “You’ve already
done enough. Just drop me at my hotel.”
“Come on. I can’t
leave you alone with that guy looking for you.”
“I took fifty grand from
him. Let’s just say it’s payment for all
the abuse he put me through. Anyway, like an idiot I stashed it at a
self-storage on Ladera and forgot to pay the rental fee.” Annie held up a key.
“Three hundred dollars should be enough to pay the back rent, interest, and
penalty. If you front me the money, I’ll give you two grand for your trouble.”
“Let’s go.”
***
“Got it.” Annie
let herself into Chercher’s front seat and showed
him the kilo of white powder in her big purse.
“You said you had money.
This is drugs!”
“It’s as good as
money once we sell it.” Annie closed the flap on
her purse. “I know where to go. Just one more stop.”
A silver-gray sedan screeched
to a halt next to them and two men in
beige suits jumped out.
“Out of the car!”
The man on Chercher’s side flashed a badge.
“Hands on the roof!”
“Well, well, Gracie, Tuco’s
been looking for you.” The cop on the
passenger side took Annie’s purse. “Look what we have here, a kilo of heroin.
You’re going down for this one.”
“Rich SHARE-SHARE, 1212
Crescent Drive,” the first cop said while
examining Chercher’s driver’s license. “Hey Art, we got a rich guy who’s going
to share-share here.”
“Yeah, he’s going
to share-share that money with lawyers and
bodyguards after losing Tuco’s drugs.”
“Look, I didn’t
know anything about this. I was just trying to help
the girl out,” Chercher said.
“Is that right, Mr. SHARE-SHARE?”
“Can we make this go away?
You can keep the money in my wallet.”
“Hey Art, Mr. SHARE-SHARE
thinks he can bribe us for eighty-two
dollars.”
“We’re a lot more
expensive than that,” Art said.
“How much?” Chercher
asked.
“Two grand,” the
first cop replied.
“I’ll have to go
to a bank machine.”
“No!” The first
cop scribbled an address and handed it to Chercher.
“You’re going to mail the money in cash to this P.O. box. If I don’t get it by
Friday, I’ll show up at your home with a search warrant. Now get the hell out
of here!”
Chercher drove twenty miles
per hour over the limit as he headed
toward the bank. Thank God he got out of there. Making next month’s rent would
be tough but he’d manage somehow. The closest post office was on Alverado. He’d
be late for work but at least he’d get this disaster behind him. An idiot
stepped into the crosswalk without looking up from his smart phone. Chercher
slammed on his brakes and stopped inches away. Tuco? Wasn’t he a character in Breaking
Bad? Those weren’t real cops and Chercher was out three-hundred eighty-two bucks.
END
