SELMA HAD NEVER MET the men her mother affectionately called her “pet teachers,” but they were easy to pick out among the small crowd gathered throughout the Mine Shaft. It wasn’t just because their heads snapped toward the door like attached to puppet strings the second she walked in. All heads in the bar did that.
She wasn’t conceited but was a realist. Selma liked to think they noticed her because she carried herself confidently and commanded some degree of respect for being the youngest person and first woman ever named president of SDSU. She could even hope it was a sign of respect for graduating valedictorian of Texas A&M Class of 1979, earning her doctorate from Cornell University, or at the very least being noticed for being the ex-wife of the now governor of South Dakota.
But we know men, therefore know the main reason they turn to stare – it’s her fantastic rack. It’s been said, by her ex-husband several times, that Selma’s boobs enter the room three seconds before the rest of her. It’s good to be recognized for something!
Tonight she was looking different from the usual black pant suit or red power dress female professionals and academics are expected to wear. Since Selma was in deep cover, she dressed the part of biker chick. A red bandana pulled back her charcoal hair. A black “Sturgis Bike Week” tank top clung to her like Saran Wrap and was topped by a black leather jacket. Selma’s faded blue jeans were so tight you could not have slid a butter knife between them and her skin.
So THAT is why the dozen or so men in the bar leered at her as the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind her. And it is why the trio of teachers at the back table turned a deeper blush of red with every step she took toward them – from pale pink to tomato red. Gosh it’s fun to watch grown men sweat, she thought.
Since her mother, Alma, had painted such a vivid picture of each and provided their detailed history before passing on three years prior, Selma knew immediately who was who.
Reuben was the ring-leader if for no other reason than age and he looked the part. His round bespecaled head sported a crew cut with a bare landing strip across the top. A little punchy and pale, after the blushing subsided, it looked like his main outdoor activity consisted of walking to his mailbox and back each morning. He also appeared to be the most confident of the three, actually looking into her eyes rather than at other parts of Selma’s body as she approached.
Larry looked like a Larry and not at all the part of Hollywood actor wannabe as she expected. He was slender, taller and for some reason wore tan coveralls with a red-flannel shirt underneath. His name wasn’t embroidered on the coveralls, but should have been. His face was speckled with faded red dots, not freckles but more like a dermatologist’s nightmare or melanoma on the move. The only hint of the pretentiousness she would later learn he had in spades was a brown fedora atop a pretty healthy head of red hair.
Buster looked like he had just stepped off the racquetball court at the YMCA. He proudly sported a stretched out gray extra-large SDSU sweatshirt. His dark blue cotton sweatpants of the extra-large-in-the-butt variety covered huge legs that would make 100-year-old Black Hills spruce trees envious. And just in case you suspected he might be a doofus but you weren’t quite sure, he removed all doubt with a Kansas City Royals baseball cap spun around backwards on his head.
“Hello fellas,” Selma said with my hands on her hips. “What’s a gal gotta do to get a drink in this place?”
The answer was “apparently not much” as the heavy breathing on her neck caused Selma to turn and see Shorty Miller with a shot glass in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other and a horn-dog grin on his face. She lightened his load.
Reuben smirked and pulled a chair out for her. He introduced the fellas; and she returned the favor.
“I’m Selma McCall. No relation to Jack,” she said, attempting some humor by referring to the man who shot Wild Bill Hickok in the back over a century ago just a few blocks down the street. But apparently the Deadwood clientele still carried a grudge against him as nobody laughed. So she continued. “I am however the daughter of Alma Sorenson who I believe you were all more personally familiar with.”
“She was good to us,” Buster said.
“If you consider blackmail good,” Larry added.
“She made us rich,” Buster argued back.
“If you consider rich good,” Reuben said. “And I do.”
“Yes, she was definitely a woman of contradictions,” Selma said, tossing back the shot of whiskey. She set the shot glass down and continued. “I’d like to pick up where she left off – with an emphasis on the rich.”
“We’re listening,” Reuben said. Larry and Buster nodded.
“My mother filled me in on some of your previous summer jobs,” she said, looking around for eavesdroppers and seeing none. “And I’d like to propose another one for your consideration.”
“Aren’t you the president at State?” Buster asked.
“Yes.”
“So doesn’t that already pay pretty well?”
“Yes.”
“So what’s in it for you?” Reuben asked.
“Well, they say you can never be too rich, too skinny or get too much revenge on your ex-husband,” Selma answered.
Reuben arched a furry brow. “Who is ...”
“The governor,” Selma finished his sentence. Larry and Buster gulped.
“Oh, that McCall,” Larry whined. “That might be enough to keep us from coming out of retirement.”
“At least hear me out, because I’d hate to resort to my mother’s methods.”
“Releasing our files won’t hurt us anymore,” Reuben said.
She tossed down her ace in the hole: “But revealing your past summer jobs might. I particularly liked the one where you stole the firemen’s uniforms and inspected the fire sprinklers at the armored car company headquarters before leaving with a wheelbarrow full of gold bars.”
The threesome surprised her by lifting their bottles, clinking them together at the center of the table and saying: “To the firemen!”
“So you’ll listen?” she asked.
“I never did much go for painting houses in July,” Reuben said.
“Or shingling roofs,” Buster said.
“Or landscaping,” Larry added, wrinkling his nose.
“So here’s my plan,” Selma started but stalled like a car on a January morning.
“Before you expound,” Reuben said, “could I have a word privately with the boys?”
“Certainly,” she said. “I’ll get us another round and save the nosy bartender a trip.”
“His name is Shorty,” Buster said.
“And don’t piss him off,” Larry added. “He’s saved our hides several times.”
“What makes you think I’d piss him off?” Selma asked, genuinely offended.
“Just a hunch,” Larry said.
So she put on her Miss Manners smile and approached Shorty, who while short for a man was almost as tall as she – about five-foot-eight.
“I thought I’d get another round of beers for the guys,” Selma said.
“That’s MY job,” he snorted. “If I needed a barmaid I’d hire one.”
“Actually, they wanted to be alone for a second so this was just my excuse.”
His back to Selma while pouring two drafts for another table, Shorty stared at her in the mirror while never glancing at the glasses. Totally bald, he was built like a concrete cinder block. Probably 80, he still didn’t have an ounce of fat or baggy skin on short table-leg arms tattooed from wrist to shoulder with what appeared to be names. Must’ve been twenty-five on each arm.
Shorty turned around with two glasses in each hand, set them in front of her and continued to glare.
“Forgive me if I’m reading things wrong,” Selma said, sliding him a ten spot, “but it seems you don’t like me.”
“You can read.”
“Yes, so what have I done to make you mad?”
“Nothing. But I can read too, and I see trouble with a capital ‘T’.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“But I know women, and I wouldn’t trust any broad who would come into a shit-hole like this.”
“You may have a point there,” Selma relented. “But if THEY trust me, will YOU trust me?”
They were both looking at the table in the dark corner where it seemed like a silent Three Stooges routine was being played out, and Shorty asked: “You ever seen a herd of deer run into the middle of the highway and stand and stare into the headlights of an oncoming truck?”
Selma didn’t answer that one; just watched the talking deer.
Chapter 9
“SO WE ARE YOUR boys now?” Larry said, still having trouble being anyone’s understudy.
“It was a figure of speech,” Reuben said. “You English majors should have heard of them.”
“Speaking of figures, did you get a load of hers,” Buster chimed in with his wisdom.
“That’s of no concern right now,” Reuben said. “I wanted to get your two cents on the situation before she starts flashing the dollar signs and painting a pretty picture of whatever it is she’s scheming. You guys sure you want to get back into this game?”
“If the money looks right and the idea seems legit, I am,” Larry said.
“Yes, wifey and I have grown accustomed to a higher lifestyle,” Buster said.
“You mean you upgraded to a double-wide,” Larry jabbed.
“No, asshole. For instance, we now drink Heineken instead of PBR.”
“Hey, don’t be knocking Pabst Blue Ribbon,” Reuben said.
Buster apologized for his insensitive remark toward the ‘union-made label’ and Reuben steered the slow train of thought back onto its rusty tracks. “Apparently we’re all interested in getting back in the game, but let’s not appear too anxious.”
“You mean play hard to get?” Larry said.
“Yes, we’re the only army she has,” Reuben said. “Let’s make sure the general gives a good slice of the pie.”
“You are a man of many mixed metaphors,” Larry added.
“Well this soldier’s dead and I need a replacement,” Buster said, raising his empty bottle above his head for any interested parties to see.
Chapter 10
SELMA ASSUMED THAT holding an empty beer bottle over your head was man-signal indicating the MENSA meeting had concluded, so she carried the beers to their table.
“Everything copasetic?” she asked, taking a seat.
Three sets of blank eyes looked at her.
“Is everything alright?” Selma translated.
“You’d have to get awfully annoying before we’d turn away free beer,” Reuben said.
“Whatever it takes. Now does anyone have to go to the bathroom before I begin?”
“Wow, you sounded just like your mom there,” Buster smiled, still staring at her boobs.
“I’ll take that as a compliment, and since you brought her up I would add that I think she’d find this plan delightful.”
“What is it?” Larry asked anxiously. “A new bank in Rapid City? Original artwork from Wall Drug? Diamonds from the School of Mines?”
“Noooo,” she said quietly, slowly leaning over the table, making eye contact with all three and drawing out the suspense ... “Motorcycles at the Sturgis Rally!”
After a pregnant pause, the three let out a roar of laughter that caused the other eight drunks in the bar to stop playing pool, throwing darts or picking their nose to look over at their table.”
“Shit, lady,” Buster said. “There’s thousands of motorcycles here during that time.”
“And most of them are owned by hairy bad-asses who would rather have us steal their old ladies,” Larry said shaking his head in disbelief.
“And we’d have to steal a helluva lot of them to make it worth our while,” Reuben added. “Motorcycles that is.”
“Ya, the old ladies wouldn’t fetch much money,” Buster laughed.
“Yes, the slave trade has kinda dried up all around the country, thankfully,” Larry added, proud of his wit.
“Let me finish,” Selma said, holding up both hands in the universal sign of “stop it, you’re killing me.” “It’s four motorcycles. Each worth about $200 grand. That’s over three-quarters of a million split four ways.”
“800 grand,” ever-exact Reuben said. “Go on.”
“It all starts with the United States Postal Service,” she began, not exactly reassuring her skeptics. “They are going to have a ceremony celebrating the issuing of a new set of stamps.”
Larry made an exaggerated mock yawn.
“Bear with me here, geniuses,” she said. “The stamps celebrate the history of American motorcycles. There are four stamps, each illustrating a different classic bike: a 1918 Cleveland, a 1940 Indian Four, a 1965 Harley-Davidson Electra Glide and a circa 1970 chopper.”
“And these stamps are valuable?” Reuben asked.
“No. They are each worth 39 cents,” Selma said.
Buster won the closely-fought contest for most confused look on his face.
“What makes this ceremony special,” she continued, “is that an original motorcycle for each of those stamps will also be on hand with the governor. That, my boys, is the money shot.”
No comments:
Post a Comment