T HERE’S A LINE IN THE MOVIE The Mexican that says, “Guns don’t kill people, postal workers do.” Despite James’ affinity for that quote, he had a belief that bank tellers would be the next group of employees to go ballistic.
“Seriously, Skip,” he had said one afternoon on the patio. “Tellers stand there for six or eight hours and watch people come up to their windows. Some of these people have nothing, and the teller feels sorry for them. They’re taking out every last cent they’ve got and the teller knows they have nothing left. After a while they start to feel really bad.” He sucked on his green bottle and puffed on a cigarette. With Psychology 101 behind me, I’ve always felt he has an obsessive personality.
“Then, they get all these rich assholes who come in and deposit hundreds of thousands of dollars. Or take that much out. They tell the teller that they’re making a down payment on a yacht or a cottage in the South of France, or whatever. After a while, these bank employees should go nuts. They’re making what? Ten bucks an hour. More than the poor people and a whole lot less than the rich.”
“What’s your point?” I asked.
“Bank tellers are going to start to kill people out of frustration.”
“Who? Which class?”
“The rich people. They’re going to start shooting the wealthy.”
I got to thinking about that. In a way, Rick Fuentes was a banker. He arranged financing for business people. He’d raise the money, make the loan, and collect the interest. Maybe the people who gave him the cash weren’t happy with the way he was lending it. Or maybe a client who had borrowed money from Fuentes wasn’t happy with the terms. Seriously, maybe this was a banker thing.
We’d found a neighborhood bar about a mile from the unit. In a back corner booth we nursed our drafts. I hoped that this drink would stay down.
“Read it again.” I waved at the bartender and he pulled two more Buds from the tap.
James pulled the letter from the small gray envelope.
“ We ask you to reconsider your decision. If you agree with us, we will give you the rest in relatively good shape. Jesus, Skip, what the hell does it mean?”
“It means we should go to the cops.”
He shook his head. “No way, compadre. It’s a federal offense to open someone else’s mail.”
“James, my God. It’s someone’s finger.” I left the rest of our discovery hang in the air.
“Not just someone’s finger.” James wasn’t going to leave it alone. “Someone who graduated from St. James High with us.”
“Yeah, there’s that.” We were both silent for a moment. The St. James ring with our graduation date engraved on it was firmly planted on the severed digit.
“And, Skipper, now that our fingerprints are all over the fucking envelopes and the letter, we’re going to get our asses kicked. The cops will fuck us, man. I have experience-or at least my old man had experience! I think we take it back to Jackie Fuentes and explain what happened.”
“What? That you don’t know the difference between forward and reverse with a fucking automatic transmission?”
He looked at me through half-slit eyes.
“I’m sorry. Now isn’t the time to start on each other. You’re probably right. We need to go back to the Fuentes house and give her the finger.”
James smiled, the first time since he’d wrecked the truck.
The bartender brought the two beers, picked up the money and silently walked back to his bar. Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffet sang It’s Five O’clock Somewhere on the juke box, and two good-old-boys in cowboy hats at a table up front sang along. Other than that, there was no one in the room.
“Well, I want it out of my truck. I sincerely do.”
“Let’s go back to Jackie’s right now.” It was way past five o’clock.
“I’m ready.” James slammed the full glass down on the table and stood up. I’ve known James Lessor since third grade and I have never, ever seen him leave a full beer on the table or anywhere else for that matter. This time he did, as he headed for the door. I remember taking a fast swallow and following him out. After all, I’d paid for the beer.