He realized that he was still sitting in the car, engine running, trying to avoid the inevitable. For thirty seconds more he considered the possibility of driving back to Fat Chance’s office and tossing the file on his desk in a gesture of righteous contempt. Then he heard what he feared was a new rattling cough from the engine and immediately cut off the ignition. “Necessity is indeed the mother,” he sighed as he got out and locked up carefully, checking the doors twice. The maroon hood of his 1948 Studebaker shone with rich depths. He had owned the car for thirty-five years, had spent embarrassing sums maintaining and restoring her, had named her Brunhilde. He needed money, but even to think of selling her now... He wiped at an invisible spot on the paint with a new handkerchief, then headed for St. Ebenezer’s visitors’ entrance, pausing once behind his car to make sure he had lined it up precisely between the lines of the parking space.
He finally found Room 5501. “East Wing,” the orderly had said with a faint smirk. West Wing it was, last room in West Wing. Clay had walked the entire lengths of the two fifth floor corridors to find that out, and now he was sweating slightly and unpleasantly. He pulled down his coat, straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and knocked softly.
No answer, but the sounds of the television filtered through the door. He knocked again and pushed the door open just enough to put his head into the room. Cannon was sitting up in his bed, still bandaged in places, sections of the Wall Street Journal spread around him. He was giggling at the television. On the screen the coyote was riding a rocket into a wall of red sandstone while the roadrunner beep-beeped across the desert highway. Another giggle.
Clay cleared his throat. “Mr. Cannon?” He said it twice more before Cannon heard and turned to him, apparently embarrassed and angry as he killed the sound of the television with his remote control.
“Why don’t you try knocking?” he growled.
“I did. I’m sorry.” Clay gave himself a mental kick in the pants for the apology. It was like saying “Thank you, officer,” to the policeman who wrote you a ticket. He had done that once, too. “I’m sorry to disturb you, that is,” he added, trying to make some sense out of it. “I’m Adameus Clay, a claims representative from...”
Cannon giggled again. “What kind of name is Adameus?”
Clay shrugged and spread his hands as if in apology, looking for all the world as if he were smiling. “You may call me Adam.”
“Claims rep, huh? Well, where the hell have you been? I knew the lawyer threat would work. You guys are trying to stiff me.”
“No, Mr. Cannon, let me assure you that we are not. And please accept my apologies for the delay.” Now I’m apologizing for Fat Chance, he thought. This just isn’t worth it. “May I sit down?”
“Yes, you may sit down, Pops, but not in here. You go sit in accounts receivable and straighten up this bill.”
Clay was frozen with his hand on the chair he had been pulling out, his unsmile transfixed as if nailed to his face. “I’m not sure I follow you, Mr. Cannon.”
Cannon sank back onto his mountain of pillows. “Another nerd. You’d better follow me. I didn’t pay outrageous premiums just to have you dance away when I have an accident. I know my rights, Pops. When I buy health insurance, I expect it to pay off when I need it.”
“Mr. Cannon, I’m here about life insurance, not health. Your late wife’s policy, sir. My condolences.” Clay congratulated himself for maintaining his composure.
Cannon looked blank for a moment. “You’re not from Mountain Valley Mutual?”
“No, sir. I’m from Acme.”
“Oh. Oh. Well, why didn’t you say so, Pops? Those guys at Mountain Valley haven’t paid one penny on my bill here, and it’s a bill, let me tell you.”
Clay was suddenly in a hurry just to get it done and get out. “I hate to intrude on your hour of grief, Mr. Cannon, but I’m afraid I have a few questions to ask you.”
“You insurance people are all alike, you know? Here I’m thinking that you might be ready to hand over the check, in person even, but no, you snivel in here with phony condolences and more questions. Is it about the accident?”
Clay still stood by the chair. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Forget it, Pops. Get out. I don’t want to see that little balding head poke around my door again unless it’s preceded by a hand with a check in it. I’ve been over that accident a dozen times. You’ve got reports, the police have reports, Mountain Valley has reports, all God’s children got reports, and they’ve all got the same bottom line. I want my money or I really will sue.”
Clay didn’t care if he did sue. He might enjoy seeing Fat Chance suffer a bit. But he did care about his hair, or what was left of his hair, especially with the twins. When they were twelve, he would be seventy, and he wanted at least to look young for them, but his hair had perversely begun thinning faster this year. So when Cannon made a reference to his little balding head, Clay looked almost angry, which meant he was furious. “There are some details, Mr. Cannon, that we need to check out.” It was the only thing he could think of to sweep to his revenge.
“That’s it, Pops. You’re sued. You and Everest and everybody. Take your four eyes and get out of here.”
“See you in court, Cannon,” Clay said before stalking from the room. He’d heard it in a movie once. It sounded good now. But in the elevator it sounded not so good, and he did pour out Kent’s torrent of abuse, but he aimed it at himself, muttering in spite of the quizzical faces behind him. So much for extra money, he thought. Well, at least when Fat Chance fires me, I can tell him off. So there is a good side to every situation.
But when he found that someone’s bumper had taken a two inch wide strip of paint off the driver’s door before putting a double-fist sized dent in Brunhilde’s front fender, he was convinced that the only side this situation had was an underside.
When the call came from Fat Chance two days later, it wasn’t at all what Clay was expecting. Fat Chance wanted to know where the report was. No, Cannon hadn’t called him, why should he? Well, being sorry wasn’t good enough. The report was on his desk by Friday or Adam could pick up pocket change someplace else.
Clay was unaccountably pleased. He had expected to be fired and was in part looking forward to it, but now he found himself eager for the second chance. And secretly he was glad for the excuse to put aside his writing, which he could scarcely admit he was doing, even to himself. He thought his short fiction was good; publishers didn’t. So now he was trying to write a hot pink romantic novel under a pseudonym, but he found the obligatory sex scenes embarrassing or amusing, and what he wrote, as he himself recognized the morning after, had all the seductiveness of a commencement address. To electrify the scenes, he was researching heaving bosoms, firm backsides, and the allure of the water- or sweat-drenched body on television commercials, and as long as he wrote exactly what he saw, the passages did seem to have some juice, but any embellishment on his part was viciously satirical. The need for money drove him on, but his pseudonym was Maress Beard, an anagram of “embarrassed.” The novel’s title was Love Me Now, My Love. Any excuse to put it aside was welcomed. Even Fat Chance.