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