Locomotive to the Past - George Schultz (famous ebook reader .txt) 📗

The lunch whistle had just blown—and Jason had set off, on foot, to catch up, with his prey! He’d had to race past “The Head Office”—where Eric, and all of the other superintendants, “hung out”! Eric—spotting his former boarder sprint past his window—bounded out of his chair, and raced to the door!

By the time he’d exited the enclosure, he was only able to see Jason—some 60 feet away! The younger man—was fast approaching his quarry!

Stackhouse, of course, had heard the anxious footsteps—pounding the earth, behind him! They were fast approaching! He—quite obviously—knew exactly whose feet were zeroing in, on his own! Also—quite obviously—he did not turn around! Simply continued walking!

“Mister Stackhouse!”

Now he stopped!

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Jason! Hi! What can I do for you, Jason?”

“Well, for openers, you might pay me! Pay me… my twenty-five hundred dollars!”

“Your what? Twenty-five hundred dollars? What twenty-five hundred dollars? What the hell are you talking about, Son?”

“You know what the hell I’m talking about! The Maple Leafs! The Stanley Cup! You gave me twenty-five-to-one odds!”

It finally occurred the younger man—that he was badly out of breath. He finally realized—that he was bent over. He’d found himself unable to continue jawing, at Stackhouse! Unable to “converse”—until he was able to expel a copious number of, torso-shaking, head-to-toe, pants!

“You gave me odds!” he’d finally resumed; albeit in a much-weaker tone than he’d intended! “Twenty-five-to-one! Twenty-five-to-goddam-one! That the Leafs wouldn’t win The Cup! They were down . . . three-games-to-none! You gave me… gave me twenty-five-to one odds… that they would never go on to win The Cup! I gave you a hundred dollars to…”

“You gave me… what? Are you crazy, Kid? No one… not a soul . . . no one, in my position, would ever take an apeshit bet, like that! Not one fucking person! Not ever! Not a fucking one . . . that I could ever think of! And all this bullshit… about a hundred goddam dollars? Get away from me, Kid!” (Mercifully, he did not add the traditional, “Ya bother me!”.)

It was at that point that Eric caught up with the pair! “What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded. “What’re you up to, Stackhouse?”

“This little shit . . . this little pissant . . . he claims that I owe him twenty-five hundred goddam dollars! Asshole!” He spat the last word,

“Well?” prodded Eric. “Do you?”

“Are you crazy? This little pot-licker? What would he be doing… high-rollin’, with money, like that? With twenty-five-hundred-dollar bets? The little piss-pot! He couldn’t buy a nickel fucking Coke!”

“I gave him a hundred dollars,” responded Jason—still somewhat breathlessly. He couldn’t be positive whether he was grateful, for his boss’ intervention! Or resentful, for the “meddling”. “He gave me twenty-five-to-one! That the Maple Leafs wouldn’t win! Wouldn’t win… The Stanley Cup! That Toronto would not win it! Win The Cup!”

“You hear that? scoffed Stackhouse. “There’s no one… who does what I do… who’d give anyone those kind of odds! Even if the Pope asked…”

“I can’t see you . . . even close to the Pope,” sneered Eric.

“Just the same… if you’d get your head, out of your ass… you’d know that no one gives apeshit odds like that! To anyone! Ever! No one… in my profession! This kid’s off… on some shit-assed pipedream! No one would ever take that kind of action! Who the hell’s he tryin’ to fuckin’ kid?”

“Supposing I told you… that I saw him hand you the money? Hand it to you!”

“Then, you’ve got your head… stuck up your ass! As far as this asshole kid has his! Has his . . . stuck up his ass!”

“So,” snapped Eric. “You’re refusing? Refusing to pay Jason? Am I understanding you correctly?”

“I’m refusing to pay something… that I don’t even fucking owe! One… that’s a whole lie! A total . . . fucking lie!”

“You get your no-good ass… off this property, Stackhouse!” seethed Eric. “And don’t ever come back!” Through clenched teeth, he continued his threat. “If I ever see you again… on this property . . . I’ll have the cops on your crooked ass! On your ass . . . so fast, that you’ll wonder where all those cleat marks came from! I’m sure the police would have more than a passing interest . . . in your shit-assed ‘profession’!”

“You’ll regret this, Asshole,” Stackhouse threatened—his mouth splattering spittle, on Eric’s face! “And you, Kid!” he’d turned—to where the tip, of the bookie’s right index finger, was no more than an inch from the end of Jason’s nose! “You?” he continued. “I’ll see you . . . fuckin’ later! You’re gonna fuckin’ pay for this, you little shit! Fuckin’ pay!”

Facing back toward Eric, Stackhouse delivered a mocking, “cutesy” curtsey! Then, he walked away! Heading—briskly—back toward his Lincoln Zephyr!

At three-thirty, that afternoon, Eric intercepted Jason—on one of his many deliveries. (This one, a load of heavy electric cable.) He told his employee—that he’d wanted to meet with him! That it was “high-priority… urgent”! Our Hero was to show up—at a, recently-opened, hamburger joint, across Joy Road! He virtually commanded the younger man to “get your ass over there”—15 minutes, after the closing whistle would blow!

The fact that his mentor had confronted him was, obviously, enough to upset Jason! Substantially! Especially—on such an, already-totally-mind-warping, day. But, what had additionally jarred him, was Eric’s use of the word “ass”—almost as though the word had related to him personally. He’d, of course, heard his former landlord occasionally use profanity! Even the ultimate—the “F-Word”—when describing kindly Hurley Stackhouse! That seemed, however, to have been the one and only time.

But, the man that Jason had, always, so looked up to—had never said anything like “get your ass over there”, to the shaken young man! Nothing even close! Never! This, of course, was more—than just a little troubling!

Five-fifteen found Jason waiting—exceedingly nervously—at the, recently-opened, hamburger restaurant, on Joy Road, just east of Southfield. He’d not sat down—anywhere. The freshly-commissioned stand had featured two, rather-small, booths—both located, at the far end of a rather long counter. There were also six stools set up, by a sort of additional counter—just inside the large window. Not unlike the setup—at the H&N System joint, on Grand River.