The Fate Merchant

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

      Paul Hyatt sat in his darkened living room and waited for the doorbell to ring.  He could still feel the blood on his hands, although he’d washed them three times since returning home. He’d lathered, scrubbed, and rinsed, dried them with the roughest towel he could find, yet the feeling remained -- slick and warm, like an invisible coating of heavy syrup. He wondered how long it would take for the sensation to go away, for his hands to feel clean.

     He got to his feet, walked to the small bathroom off the main corridor, and flicked on the light. He turned on the hot water, and shoved his hands under the faucet, gritting his teeth as steaming water sloshed over his hands, cooking them, mottling the skin, purifying them -- if that was even possible. He cursed Barry Watts for putting him in this position.  And Arnold Gleason: he could go to hell, too, and take his cherry pie with him.

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     “This diner has the best cherry pie in the state,” Gleason said as he settled into a booth. He sported a neat chinstrap beard, no mustache. It was the sort of beard that made Paul think of an Amish farmer -- a pretentious Amish farmer in a black turtleneck and black-rimmed glasses.

     “I see that,” Paul said. “It’s a real draw.”

   Two grey-haired women occupied a booth at the opposite end of the diner, an otherwise empty neon-lit 50’s throwback with checkerboard linoleum, red-cushioned stools, and a small jukebox on each table. The women shoveled pie into their mouths, ignoring each other, and ignoring Buddy Holly, who fought the law from a pair of speakers bolted into the wall behind the L-shaped counter.

     “What do you want?” Paul asked. “You didn’t make me drive an hour out of the city for pie.”

     A waitress in a pink uniform arrived with two menus.  She slapped the menus on the table, pulled a pad and a pen from the pocket of her white apron, and smiled at them.  “Anything to drink?”

     “Coffee,” Paul said.

     “Two coffees,” Gleason added. “And a slice of cherry pie.”

     The waitress looked at Paul. “How about a slice for you?”

     Paul shook his head.

     She wiggled the pen at him. “Best in the state.”

     “Yeah. That’s what I hear. No, thanks.”

     The waitress shrugged and set off along the row of stools, the soles of her white sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.

     “What I want,” Gleason said, “is to talk about Paul Hyatt.”

     Paul leaned forward and placed his arms on the table.  “Look, I don’t know how Barry found that article, but I’m going to tell you the same thing I told him: I’m not Paul Hyatt.”