Mrs. Million by Pete Hautman

Author:Pete Hautman [Hautman, Pete]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-0621-6
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2013-03-15T16:10:00+00:00

27

JON GLAVS COULD DRINK a bowling alley—ten Budweiser longnecks—every night of the week without feeling hungover in the morning. It was a matter of pride with him. He would drink his first one immediately upon arriving home from the dealership and would build his triangle of empties on the coffee table in front of the TV one bottle at a time. If he sold a car that day he would top it off with a shot of bourbon, which would give him a mild headache the next morning, but it was worth it. If he sold two cars, which didn’t happen that often, he’d continue to drink shots until he fell asleep. Those made for some rough mornings, but fortunately he didn’t have that many two-car days.

Once or twice a week he would go out with his buddies or, rarely, on a date, but most nights he simply sat at home and drank beer and that was okay with him. He was only thirty-three years old, renting this little house on Walnut Street, and could still get into a pair of thirty-six-inch-waist Levi’s. Gallons of Rogaine and some judicious combing had reversed his hair loss, and of course he always had a sharp car to drive. This week he was driving a red Mustang. A lot of women thought he was good looking. Plenty of time to get serious about marriage and career and health and all that crap.

He cracked his number seven beer and thumbed the remote until he came across a rerun of The Simpsons. Jon liked to watch Homer Simpson. What a loser.

The doorbell rang. What the hell? He turned off the TV sound and went to answer it, beer in hand, curious to see who would be calling on him so late. Maybe it was some gorgeous large-breasted long-haired woman asking directions. You never knew. He swung the door open.

“Hey there, Jon boy!” A broad-bellied, long-armed guy in a Vikings stocking cap. The guy needed a shave. Jon smiled uncertainly. He recognized the man, remembered selling him a truck a couple months back. No, not a truck, a van. He looked past the man, saw the very vehicle parked at the curb. A six-year-old Econoline, maroon, high mileage. He’d been glad to get it off the lot.

“You remember me, don’t you?”

Jon remembered that he’d got thirty-five hundred for the van, but he couldn’t remember the guy’s name.

Jon said, “Ah, how’s that Econoline running?”

“Fine, fine. You mind if I come in a minute?”

Jon frowned. “What for?”

“I wanted to talk to you about a car,” the man said.

“It’s not exactly business hours.”

“You like easy money, don’t you?”

Jon thought for a moment, but only one response suggested itself. “Sure,” he said. “Who doesn’t?”

The trip odometer read three point one miles. Three point one miles from Barbaraannette’s house to his house, almost five kilometers, a distance he could run in under sixteen minutes. Art got out of his car and went inside and called Nathan Nagler at home and told him that he had just written a one-million-dollar loan to Barbaraannette Quinn.

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