This particular stranger had walked past the Leprechaun’s entrance, pausing momentarily in front of the blinking neon four-leaf clover mounted in the middle of the big picture window that gave the drinkers a view of the world outside; the world that was humming along just fine without them. The stranger appeared to hold a short debate with himself, finally winning the argument, or perhaps losing it. He had then turned around and strutted into the tavern like he was the mayor or something.
Striking up a conversation was easy, since the only people in the whole place at this early hour were the stranger, the man who used to be Jim Robertson, and Ted. Jim bought the stranger a beer and immediately began mining for miseries. He primed the pump by giving the stranger a quick rundown of his own fall from grace. He offered no specifics—he quite frankly didn’t like talking about himself—just provided the stranger a quick recap of the lowlights of his life, then waited for him to reciprocate. After all, he reasoned, he would have to reciprocate; it was only good bar etiquette.
As it turned out, though, the stranger didn’t feel he had any miseries to share. He had a good job, a beautiful wife, a happy family. A lot like the old Jim Robertson, in fact. The only reason he was even in this part of town, he said in a vaguely condescending tone of voice that was not lost in Jim, was because he had had travel to his good-for-nothing brother-in-law’s apartment to collect some money the creep had owed him for months.
The man who used to be Jim Robertson was disappointed, to say the least. He had wasted a whole beer on this guy and gotten nothing in return. In the background of the bar, Sinatra continued to sing about doing things his way. “Come on,” he said, “there must be something. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
The stranger hesitated just the barest fraction of a split-second and the man knew he had him. Everyone had a misery or two, everyone, even the happiest of people; it was just a matter of getting them to share. Finally the stranger said, “Ah, what the hell. You want to know the worst thing I’ve ever done?”
The man who used to be Jim Robertson nodded, and the stranger said, “Okay, since you seem to find it so important, how’s this grab you? I’m driving home one day, must be close to twenty years ago now, and I had stopped for a few pops after work. You know, just to relax and unwind.
“Anyway, I come around a corner, it’s not even that far from here in fact, I’m almost home for God’s sake, I come around a corner and wham! Some stupid chick’s running along the side of the road, she’s right there in the road, I had nowhere to go and I hit her! Sure, I was a little drunk and maybe driving too close to the shoulder—okay, technically I was on the shoulder—but good Christ I never saw her!
“So I stop the car to see if she’s okay, but of course she’s not okay, none of what’s left of her is okay. She’s dead, in fact, but here’s the unbelievable part, the part I have never been able to understand: no one is around! Not one single, solitary witness! So do what anyone would do; I jump back in my car and finish the drive home, suddenly stone-cold sober. There was nothing I could do for that chick anyway, right?
“I’ll tell you this, though, and it’s amazing how it happens—you want to sober up fast, run someone over in your car. Works every time.”
The stranger paused for a moment to take a drink of his beer and the man who used to be Jim Robertson watched him steadily. Jim finally glanced down at the scarred wooden table before taking a sip of his own beer, now almost empty. He waited for the stranger to continue.
“I know what you’re thinking, I can see it in your eyes,” the stranger said defensively. “I left her there; how could I just leave her there? But here’s the thing, friend. She was dead, there was nothing I could do for her, not a goddamned thing. I still had a family to support. What would be the point of my life getting ruined too, you know?
“I found out later this stupid chick was kind of a local hero, she was some Olympic gymnast or something. Won a medal, silver, I think it was, but it’s been so long I can’t exactly remember for sure.
“I’ve never told anyone that story, not even my wife, not even when she saw the damage to the car and asked what the hell had happened. She still thinks I hit a deer. But you wanted to know the worst thing I ever did, so there you go.” The stranger sat back, seemingly winded, or maybe just amazed he had actually told someone his story after twenty years. He took a long swallow and drained his mug, leaving a thin trace of foam running down the inside of the glass and pooling on the bottom.
The man who used to be Jim Robertson had listened without interrupting once. Now he shook his head in mute agreement that that had been one stupid chick. He bought the stranger another beer before abruptly leaving, apologizing but saying he was late for an urgent appointment. He realized how ridiculous that sounded but didn’t care.
Jim hurriedly walked the six blocks to where he kept his car stored in a long-term parking garage. It was a 1984 Lincoln Town Car, a huge, gas-guzzling land-yacht, and it was the only thing he still had left from his former life. He turned the key and the big engine rumbled to life as he had known it would. He drove slowly and carefully out of the garage and to his destination. It would not do to get pulled over for DUI now, of all times. This truly was an urgent appointment.
When the man who used to be Jim Robertson reached his destination, he pulled neatly to the curb and waited. He hoped against hope he was not too late. The car sat idling patiently, its finish marred by the decades it had spent mostly sitting in storage. The once-gleaming black paint job now looked gray and pitted, but the engine ran like a Swiss watch, and that was all the man cared about.
A few minutes later, the door to the Lucky Leprechaun opened and into the dwindling late-afternoon sunshine walked the stranger. Fast-food wrappers and other trash on the sidewalk swirled around the stranger’s feet as the late-fall winds whipped and gusted. The stranger pulled his collar up against the cold.
The man who used to be Jim Robertson slammed the accelerator to the floor and the big car shot across the street to the sound of squealing tires and screaming witnesses.
The stranger never had a chance. Jim Robertson’s big Lincoln hit him doing forty and drove him into the brick front wall of the Lucky Leprechaun like a nail gun shooting a spike through a sheet of cardboard. Thick black smoke poured from the car’s engine. The stranger disappeared, crushed to death somewhere amidst the wreckage of smashed brick wall, twisted automotive sheet metal, billowing smoke and gushing radiator fluid.
The police arrived just five minutes later, and when they did they found the man who used to be Jim Robertson, still sitting in the driver’s seat of the Lincoln, listening to music and waiting patiently for them. Frank Sinatra serenaded him from the car’s tape deck, and in his hands he held Jenny’s 1984 Olympic Silver medal. He turned it over and over in his hands as he hummed along with Frank.
The Road to Olathe
Another online magazine no longer with us is Crime and Suspense. I especially miss this webzine because its editor, Tony Burton, offered me my very first short story acceptance, for the July, 2007 issue. There was no pay involved, but that didn’t lessen the excitement I felt at seeing my creation take its place among those of some other very talented crime fiction writers. “The Road to Olathe” tells of a fictional encounter in depression-era Kansas between a family on the verge of losing their farm and a stranger passing through, who isn’t exactly what—or who—he appears to be. This story went on to be featured in a C&S anthology of ten of Burton’s favorite stories culled from the magazine’s 2007 issues titled TEN FOR TEN, released in July, 2008.