The 'Cousins'

Part Seventy-Two: Mitt Fawley Makes a Move!

Timeline: 12:12, Friday 20th April :: Harry’s Place, Bamptonville

“ Them sons-a-bitches got it coming to ‘em …. You bet they have  … who the hell they think they’re dealing with here… they ain’t gonna know what hit ’em come Monday… Let ‘em come crawling to me for help on their hands and knees. ...They get nothin’ from me…nothin’ … not now, …my conscience is clear.”  

Mitt Fawley screamed at his windscreen, as he drove away at a manic speed from the condo and his embarrassing encounter with Gerry Wolny. 

In his rage he yanked the steering wheel heavily to left and right, stabbing his feet aggressively on the brake, clutch and accelerator to make only minor adjustments to speed or steering.  

The Pole’s indifferent militant treatment of him had deeply speared Fawley’s pride; the initial shock of which wore off quickly, allowing  self-absorbed anger to rise within him in its stead.

Mitt took the back way into town, which led him along Charmain to the junction with Main.  He had initially intended turning right at the junction, returning to the plant by the longer, but quieter northern route. Driving along the peaceful, minor country roads better suited his present mood, but halfway through the right turn to the north on Main, Fawley changed his mind and wrenched the wheel to the south.  With a screech of tortured tires the car shuddered as it crossed the carriageways, carousing around to the left directly in front of a Chrysler Neon heading south on Main. The Chrysler swerved to one side, braking heavily to avoid a collision and sounded a long, angry blast of protest on the horn. 

Fawley clipped the kerb with the nearside front wheel, veering the car to the left; forcing him to concentrate on recovering control of the vehicle. Mitt had not noticed the Chrysler until he heard its blast on the horn, which he acknowledged indifferently by opening his window and raising his middle finger in the air. 

Seconds later Fawley spotted one of the men he had laid off from the plant recently. Chad Grozier was pushing through the swing door into Harry’s Place. There was a free parking slot in the road outside the diner and on impulse Mitt heaved the car into the space.  The car was travelling too fast to make the manoeuvre and it shook and groaned as Fawley stamped his foot on the brake; careering the nearside wheels into the kerbstone with a rubbery squeal. The car came to rest with its fender in contact with the vehicle in front and to the accompaniment of another long, blast of protest from the further discomfited Chrysler following behind. 

The Chrysler slowed as it passed for the irate motorist to mouth angry obscenities at Fawley, who spurned the man’s objections with a scowl and a dismissive wave of his hand. Mitt was fortunate that Officer Bronsky was at lunch and not on his regular station on Main, opposite Charmain, or a citation for his erratic and dangerous driving would have added to the misfortunes of his day.

Fawley’s badly bruised ego was in urgent need of solace. He knew he could get it from the barflies at Harry’s.  All he had to do was buy them their liquor. He stood on the sidewalk facing the swing door for a second to assure himself it was a good idea. He hitched up his pants, took a deep breath, then with a violent shove, pushed open the door and strutted inside.

Fawley’s arrogance returned with each step he took towards the bar.  However, the loud and colourful greeting with which he intended to announce his presence died on his lips when he entered the bar area and saw the sallow, grim faces of four of the eight men he had laid off last month who slouched, brooding,  over the bar. The beers that usually never left their hands once the caps were off stood in a line on the bar; a wisp of foam protruded from the mouth of each bottle to show they were as yet, untouched.

“Hey, what gives! Somebody died or sumpun?” The three men standing with their backs to Fawley ignored his question. Dwight at the far end of the bar raised his thick eyebrows, screwed up his face and hissed, “Or sumpun.”