Butter Pecan

I was anxious, but did not call or otherwise talk to Bobbie or Evan that evening; I had something scheduled with Bobbie the following afternoon, and figured we could talk then. I did tell Marie, in order to judge her reaction, about the theft.

"Hey, something bizarre happened at the show today; one of the cars was stolen!"

"Oh, what car? And did they find it?" Marie asked, not really caring except that it was something interesting that had happened to me that I was sharing; she was still walking on pins and needles around me, dancing around the elephant in the room.

"It was Jonathan William's '69 Barracuda. Man, he was upset." Marie went pale, briefly at the mention of the Asshole. "He was like a wild man when the cops got there. And I don't know why, but he kept looking at me." I turned the screw a bit tighter.

"Huh. I wonder why?" was her sole comment. "So, where are you taking me for dinner tonight?" she quickly changed the subject.

"I'm feeling like something primal tonight. I feel like I'm a shark, gobbling up and destroying all those little annoying things around me."

"So, maybe not a shark, but Red Lobster, and you're eating a huge platter of shrimp, gotcha." It wasn't until I walked off to get cleaned up that I realized that she may have made a pun. I was the Barracuda, and I'd just 'devoured' Jonathan William's prize; he was the shrimp. At least I hope that's what she meant, and not something else.

Red Lobster was good, and again, Marie wore me out that night. I think somewhere in all of this, Marie had been replaced by a Porn Star making a full length movie a day, as much as she went after me.

The next day, bright and early, the police arrived, right at 8 AM. I was up, but Marie was still sleeping upstairs. I was surprised, of course, but also nervous. In my thoughts, there was only one reason the police would question me, that they had figured out what we had done. You can imagine how nervous I was, but I tried hard not to let it show.

"Mr. Preston, can we have a few minutes of your time?" one of the cops, Lawrence, from his name tag, asked. "We just have a few questions about yesterday's theft of a brown 1969 Plymouth Barracuda belonging to one Jonathan Williams yesterday at the car show. We understand that you were there, and we wanted to talk with you a moment."

I let the two in, and asked them to sit; I also offered a cup of coffee. The other office, Hinton, by the name badge, accepted the coffee, but Lawrence declined.

Lawrence started things off when I brought in the coffee, some creamer, and some sweetener. "We're trying to chase down every possible lead. You were there, and from what we understand, you were taking pictures of folks at the show. We were hoping to get copies of those, and to ask you a few other questions. Frankly, for some reason Mr. Williams seems to think you may have been involved. We don't accept that you are involved, but Mr. Williams gave us a motive. That said, we know where you were during the time the car was stolen, you have at least thirty people who've already said that you were at the awards for 'Best 1960s Car', and were in fact hosting it. Mr. Williams himself admits you were there, but is insisting that you know something."

"What possible motive do I have? I mean, I don't like Jonathan, but I don't have any reason to hate him. Heck, he used to date my wife, before I really knew her; their breaking up because he couldn't keep it in his pants with other girls led eventually to us being together. He can be a bit of a jerk, but I should actually be grateful."

"And are you grateful, Mr. Preston?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I'm not able to discuss that right now."

"That sounds odd. At any rate, the last time I saw Jonathan's car was around 4 or so. Jonathan came into the tent closer to 4:50, maybe 5. And yes, I can let you have the pictures I took."

I went over to my computer, and plugged it into my phone to download the pictures; I then copied them onto a small, inexpensive thumb drive, and then walked back to the officers, who were discretely looking at everything in the room. It's rough when cops become nosy for no apparent reason.

"Here are the pictures, Officer Lawrence. I'd love to get the USB stick back when you're done. I am curious as to why, beside the pictures, you're here. You say Jonathan thinks I did it?" At that moment, I heard a bit of a gasp, and looked up to see Marie. I knew I could make it sound like the police presence in the room was the reason for Marie to gasp.

"Honey, this is officers Lawrence and Hinton; they wanted the photos I took yesterday, of the crowds and cars of the various entrants in the contest."

"Oh."

"Mrs. Preston, can I talk with you a moment?" piped in Hinton.

"Uh, sure. What do you need?"

"In private?" She looked lost and pale, as she took him into the kitchen.

"What's that about?" I asked Lawrence.

"Just need to verify something Mr. Williams stated. Now, can you tell me where you went after Mr. Williams car was stolen?"

I laughed at that. "Yeah, I stuck around there for a bit, then came home. Marie, my wife, wanted to go out for dinner, so we went to the Red Lobster and then came home. Why? You're making it sound like I need to worry about something."

"No, no, it's nothing like that." He tried to allay my fears, but I knew more than he did what was going on. He, and his partner, were trying to find out from my so-called loving wife whether or not the motive that Asshole had given them was real. Regardless, the conversation petered out at that point. A few minutes later, Marie and Hinton came back in the room, Hinton nodded at Lawrence, and they got up to leave. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Preston. If you can think of anything that might be of help, here's my card." he said as he handed me a card with his contact information on it, and then the two left.

"What did they want you to talk with you about?" I asked Marie.

She went a bit pale when I asked, but then said "He just wanted to talk about Jonathan and my old relationship, back when we dated, and whether or not you and Jonathan get along."

"Not too well. He's quite a bit of an asshole, actually." I replied.

"He's not that bad, but he's not you, that's for sure. I love you, Hank."

"I dunno, he treated folks pretty poorly yesterday at the show. And he was a poor sport, plus he basically called his Barracuda a pussy magnet. Sounds like an asshole to me."

"Yeah, I guess that sounds like him being an asshole. But he's not important. After all, he's not my husband, the man I love. He's just some guy, some asshole, I used to date. I love you, Hank." I could see what she was doing. She wanted me to say it, to reassure her.

"I love you too, Marie." I felt pain at saying it. I knew it was a lie. I knew it was the truth. And I hadn't wanted to say it, but it wasn't time to stop saying it.

Bobbie called later that day and begged off getting together; we talked on the phone, mostly inane things like fishing. I wanted to find out from his side how things went, but I didn't dare. Life moved on.

A few days later, I met Bobbie back at the DQ. We sat and had our treats, as we talked about nothing. We did briefly touch on the car theft, since it was now going through the social circle, but we only asked why, with so many other deserving cars in the show, someone had stolen that one. We knew, of course, but our conversation didn't reflect that, since we wanted to be overheard; we speculated as to why someone would steal that one (it had already come out that the thieves had worn jackets with "Classic Cars" and a logo of a Dodge Coronet on it, which had also adorned the truck; peel off stickers, as it turned out, but enough to fool folks). And both of us briefly mentioned a belief that Williams had been responsible, and it was an insurance scam. I don't know whether or not the police heard the conversation, or even heard of it directly, though we held it loud enough a couple of other folks who came by had to have heard. We hoped the rumor would get out.

It was 10 days after the theft that he finally came after me. I was surprised, in one respect, that he didn't do it earlier. He wanted my woman, and he thought I'd taken his most precious thing. He came after me in the parking lot of my work on a Tuesday evening, right as 5 other folks I worked with were coming out. I saw his normal car in the back of the lot, so it wasn't a total surprise he was there, but I allowed it to seem like it was.

The sucker punch to the small of my back hurt like hell. Didn't help that he then slammed my head into the roof of my car. "Where's my car, asshole? I'm going to beat you until you tell me where you put it." He then slammed my face into the A-pillar of my truck after that, which made me gasp; the pain was beyond any that I'd ever felt, not from my face, but from my chest. "You couldn't take me fucking Marie, could you? She should have been mine all along. I even left some cum on your pillow for you, fucker. You're nothing but a wimp, a piece of shit. Where the fuck is my car?" With each sentence, I'd feel another punch; I distinctly heard and felt it when he broke what turned out to be my third broken rib, but the pain of that was nothing compared to the pain in my left chest; I could feel the weight of some invisible elephant on my chest.

I was a bit stunned, but I had known it was about to happen; my work colleagues hadn't. It took them a moment before they got there. I passed out, because the next image I saw was the paramedics working on me. I turned my head, and saw him lying five feet from me, with his hands cuffed behind his back.

"The mother fucker stole my car! He stole it! Little limp dick can't take care of his wife, and is mad at me for helping her out. You need to beat it out of him where he put my car!" he was screaming.

I could hear my boss in the background talking with some of my coworkers. They were discussing my marital situation, and whether or not I was some kind of car thief. I decided to play it up, so I'd have plenty of witnesses to him saying it. I tried to say something "Marie cheated on me? With you? You mother (cough) fucker! I'll (cough) kill you!" I know that blood was bubbling in my mouth as I said it; I'm not sure anyone could understand me.

I felt the pin prick in my arm as the paramedic inserted an IV; a moment later, I felt my arm go cold, and after a ragged, bubbling breathe or two after that, I don't remember anything.

I woke up in what was now a familiar place since Marie's betrayal, the emergency room. I only woke briefly, however, just long enough to hear the words "has a punctured lung and...". I was having a lot of trouble breathing, and it felt like someone was smothering me and sitting on my chest at the same time. I felt the strong metallic taste of blood. Then after that, again, nothing.

I woke up for the first time again on Saturday, exactly two weeks after the theft. I didn't know it was Saturday, of course; my last coherent thoughts had been Tuesday, when Asshole had attacked me. I wondered how he had put me down with the sucker punch; I'd been expecting something, although not, perhaps, like that. It had felt like he had hit me with the proverbial lead pipe.

As it turns out, it wasn't completely proverbial. He had hit me with a jack handle from his car. In doing so, he'd broken two of my ribs with the first blow; I was lucky that he missed my spine, as he'd hit me from behind. Where I was unlucky was that one of the ribs he broke punctured my left lung. The result was that I was literally drowning in my own blood. From what I know now, I barely made it through the 7 hour surgery to repair my damaged lung. Even with the efforts, it was unlikely to ever function as well as it had, and I would have a reduced lung capacity and blood oxygen intake levels the rest of my life.

So much for ever running the Boston Marathon. Lucky me, it hadn't been a bucket list goal to run any marathons.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that I was in an isolated room, white, brightly lit. On the whiteboard on the wall beside the cabinet under the TV it said 'Dr. Wisnowski' and 'RN Maggie' beside one of those "How are you feeling?" pain diagrams. I didn't feel hurt. I didn't feel hot. I didn't feel cold. I couldn't feel my fingers, my hands, my legs, my toes. The only thing I felt was soreness in my throat, because of the tube down it. I willed my arm to move, and as I did, I heard a loud piercing alarm go off; a moment later, a pretty, sexy, young woman, with one of the greatest asses I think I'd ever seen came bustling in the room. I suddenly fantasized about all those nurse stories.

"Mr. Preston, please, don't move. You need to be calm. You're in the hospital; you were attacked, and required immediate surgery. Your wife and some of you family have been here nearly the entire time, and I'll let them in after the doctor comes in. Blink your eyes twice if you understand."

I blinked at her, twice, and she told me she was going to need to leave the tube in my throat a little longer. I think I went out again briefly because I never saw him come in, but his voice brought me back out.

"Mr. Preston, hi, I'm Dr. Wisnowski. I'm the physician in charge of your care, and I wanted to talk with you for a moment; I need you to concentrate, and not try to move or speak, but you can blink your eyes, once for no, twice for yes, ok?" I blinked twice.

"You were attacked last Tuesday; your assailant used a metal bar, and when he did, he broke two of your ribs; one of them punctured your lung. He broke another rib a moment later, and your right arm. I want you to wiggle the fingers, only the fingers, of your left hand." and I did. "Good. Now wiggle the fingers, and only the fingers, of your right hand. Good." He pulled the sheet covering my legs aside, "I need you to wiggle you toes, but gently, on your left foot, then your right. Good. We were worried that there could be spinal damage, but it appears not. You're a very lucky man. You should be out of here in 4 days or so, and healed up in a month or so." I didn't feel lucky.

After looking at some numbers on a chart, and then at the numbers on the beeping machines, he told the nurse that he wanted to increase the oxygen through the nose hose or whatever they call that thing they hang over your ears and loop under your nose. He also told her she could remove the 'intubation tube' or something (I think that's what he called it), and that I was allowed liquid only, to be closely monitored; ice only for the first two hours, then broth and jello. Oh goody, what a feast! Broth and jello!

After she removed the tube (which I did actually feel, and it was uncomfortable to say the least), she placed a small cup of ice chips in front of me on a tray. What she didn't do was give me any, and I rapidly realized that I couldn't move my left arm, as they had it secured to the bed rail, and I couldn't move my right, because it appeared to be in an inflatable cast and a sling. As the dryness and soreness of my throat started to really hit my brain, I decided that Maggie was a closet sadist.

Lucky for me, a few minutes later Marie came in. She looked like she was about to jump on me in the bed, when a hand grabbed her and pulled her back. She looked like hell, no makeup, drawn, frumpy, needing to shower, and in total anguish.

I don't know from what depths of hell I was able to croak it out, with each word taking some of my soul and my life force with it. "You" and it must have been the most drawn out 'you' I've ever said. "Cheated" and her eyes began to tear before I could move on. "On" each word took an effort. "Me."

She looked devastated at me saying that. "With" and I passed out again.

My next conscious memories were of hearing crying and then the tenor of Bobbie's voice. I could hear soft words being spoken in the background, but couldn't make out anything at first. And then I started to be able to understand. the gentle words Bobbie was saying "...should leave now, before he awakes again." More crying.

"But I love him. It was a mistake, a horrible mistake." I couldn't tell who the person speaking was, as the voice didn't sound familiar enough; it was too broken from sobbing to make out anything more than the words, and then only barely.

"You can talk with him later Marie. But you need to go, go rest, go get yourself cleaned up, and go get prepared. He remembers what Williams said. He knows, Marie. And you being here may hurt more than help right now. I'll call you if he asks for you." I allowed myself to fall back into the dark as I heard the other voice say something more.

When I awoke again, I croaked "Ice." I'm not sure how anyone understood me, but a moment later I felt a small spoon with the wonderfully cold ice at my lips. I sucked on the ice, and allowed it to re-hydrate and soothe my sore mouth and throat. A second followed a moment later, and I opened my eyes to see the worried face of my brother.

"Welcome back to the living. You gave us quite a scare there, Baby Bro." Mike attempted a weak smile. Bobbie leaned in "Keys have been planted. It's all going to hit the fan soon, Hank. The asshole who did this to you is going to pay, and pay, and pay. And then I'm sending cigarette cartons to his cell mate, when this is over, with the words 'Make him your bitch' included every month once he's in prison. They're currently just holding him in jail, but it looks like he'll get 5-7 years just for the assault; the insurance fraud will be gravy."

"Two. Graves. Bobbie?" I slowly croaked out. Bobbie understood what I was asking, the old saw about revenge and needing to dig two graves.

"This, and your fallout with Marie, will be the only graves for you, Hank. But I intend to make sure he goes through hell for what he did to you in the parking lot."

I managed to get more ice chips, a small sip of water, and even a small sip of the now cool broth; Bobbie ate the jello, of course.

When I could talk well enough, we finally talked about something important. "How is she holding up, Bobbie?"

"She's devastated, of course. I mean, in the end, this is all her fault, right? For all her faults, I think she does love you. Don't know why, though; I mean, I've seen you naked, and it sure ain't that." he joked. It hurt when I chuckled with him on his jab. I didn't have enough energy, though, to jab back that his Sue thought I had enough there; we both know we're bullshitting each other, but Bros forever, you know?

"So, you put the key in place? Have you dropped the dime yet?" I asked.

"Key's in his car's coin holder; he left it unlocked when he attacked you, and it didn't get towed for two days. Car somehow was locked when the police towed it; I wonder when that happened, eh? Dime will be dropped... hmm, sometime tomorrow morning. The attack was covered in the newspaper, and has been picking up steam. The news that he was screaming about his stolen car went out this morning, so it'll hit the newspaper tomorrow. Which means Tom will drop the dime after the newspaper comes out."

"Tom? Who's Tom?" I asked, perplexed.

"Tom Warner, Darla's husband. Hell, you were photographed giving him the award at the car show. The Impala? He won best in show or something?"

"Thomas Warner is Darla's husband? How the heck... no, I don't want to know. The less I know, the better."

"He won fair and square, Hank. And it was just a lucky chance that he happened to be able to prove you were there, and he's the one who will nail the asshole to the cross, when they find the 'Cuda."

"I'll need to get the divorce turned back on, Bobbie. Now that it's public, we can move forward."

"No revenge beyond that on Marie, Hank?" I could hear it in his voice that Bobbie thought the divorce was enough revenge.