Texas Heat

Clayton Rifkin III crossed his feet on top of the battered desk and leaned back in the ancient office chair. He stared past his pointy-toed, snakeskin cowboy boots and surveyed his kingdom in the shadows of the late afternoon sun. Yes, sir, Clayton’s Autorama was the finest dealer of gently used vehicles in Harris County.

The car business was the only thing Clayton had ever known. His daddy, and granddaddy before him, had run this lot. Now it was all his. He had a sweet deal. Finance with a significant down payment, and then when they missed a note, tow it, clean it up and put it back on the lot. Hell, he had a 1989 Chevy Impala that he’d sold four times now. He had only paid $1500 for it and had gotten four down payments of $2000 each. One guy even managed to make six payments of $300 before Clayton had to repo. Some would have called it greed; Clayton saw it as good business. The world was Clayton’s oyster.

Clayton knew this was going to be a fine day when Tito, his repo man, pulled into the lot with another car in tow. He grunted as he hefted his girth from the chair. Clayton had never been one to turn down a meal, and it showed in his physique. He adjusted his Wranglers, pushed through the building doors, and immediately broke out into a sweat. In early August, Harris County was not kind, with humidity so thick at times you could cut it with a pocket knife.

“I didn’t realize Mr. Gonzalez was behind,” Clayton said, dabbing at the back of his neck with a blue bandana.

“He was only a day late. I was in the neighborhood, so I snatched it; he thought he would be slick and park it in the garage. Ain’t no garage ever slowed me down.” Tito grinned as he started unhooking the older model Lexus.

“Now, Tito, you know I have to reprimand you for that. We ain’t supposed to break into private property,” Clayton said with a straight face and then broke into howling laughter.

“Okay, boss, I’ll never do it again…until next time.”

“Let me grab the extra set of keys and my tools, and I’ll re-key this little darlin’, and we can get it cleaned up and on the lot.”

Clayton had done this so many times that he could practically re-key a car in his sleep. He made a game out of it to see how fast he could do one; this one had taken about seven minutes and thirty-one seconds, which included cutting the new key.

By the time he was done, he had sweat pouring off him. He had a shower in the back office; he probably would just shower, lock up early, and get on down to Marvin’s Bar and Grill, where he had a barstool reserved most every night. Marvin had a cute new waitress who had caught his eye, and wanted a head start ogling her.

After showering and packing himself into a clean pair of Wranglers and a button-down shirt, Clayton checked his look in the mirror. He stared at his reflection as he topped everything off with a gray Stetson, cocked ever so slightly to the right. How could the ladies resist? Giving himself a wink and a smile, he walked out of the room, flipping the light switch.

To this day, he never knew why he did it, but on his way out, he decided to pop the trunk on the Lexus that Tito had just brought in. What he saw was a trunk full of money—stacks of hundred dollar bills bound together in $10,000 bundles. Clayton stood, staring at the money for a minute before regaining his wits. There was no thought to it; he went into autopilot and started carrying the cash into his office. After about ten trips, it was all stacked on his desk. He was sweating again. Clayton walked over to the velvet painting of Elvis that was hung behind his desk and revealed the safe. He twisted the knob for the combination, his dearly departed daddy’s birthday and opened the safe. There was no way all that cash was going into the safe. He stuffed in as much as he could and closed it. He went out and backed his own Cadillac CTS into the garage and popped the trunk. The rest of the money fit into the cavity meant for the spare tire. As an afterthought, he grabbed a handful of the bills and stuffed them into the front pocket of his jeans.

***

Luis Gonzalez was scared. He was supposed to have delivered whatever was in the trunk to a man his brother-in-law, Santos, had sent him to. He didn’t listen, though, and had stopped at home to spend the night. Now, it was gone. Not just what was in the trunk, but the whole car! It was in the garage not an hour ago. His plan was to have a pleasant supper, sleep in his bed, and go in the morning. That was all ruined now. He would try to find the car first before calling Santos. He already thought Luis was a screw-up. He had given him this small job, he said, because he didn’t want to see his sister and nieces suffer because Luis was an idiot.

Luis walked up and down the street, looking for the Lexus. Some kids had taken it for a joyride, and they’d bring it back. Yes, that is what it was. Luis could breathe better now. He’d go home, eat, and leave in the morning just as planned.

It was still dark out when Luis’s cell phone started ringing. His arm shot out from underneath the blankets and knocked the phone off the nightstand. He stumbled out of bed and fished the phone from under the bed. The caller ID showed Santos calling.

“Luis!”

“Santos, my friend, what can I help you with?” Luis asked, fighting to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

“Idiot! Where is the delivery I sent you to do?”

“Well…uh…I stopped at home —”

“You stopped at home?” Santos asked.

“Uh, yeah. Just to, you know, eat, and sleep in my bed.”

“I swear that by all that is holy if you screw this up, I will kill you! Now get that delivery done.”

“There might be a problem with that.”

“Problem? What problem?

“The car, um, well, it is missing.”

There was a long pause of several seconds. “What do you mean missing?”

“It was here, and then it was gone. I thought maybe some kids took it for a joyride. It still is not here, though.”

“Luis, you stay right there. I will be there shortly,” said Santos, his voice low and menacing.

***

The sun had just dipped below the horizon when Clayton got to Marvin’s. The regulars all called out to him. It seemed they had reached a very early start. Clayton ambled over to them and announced that all the drinks were on him tonight. That revelation brought a cheer from the crowd. Clayton hoped Jessie Mae, the new waitress, had heard him. Maybe she’d be impressed with his big-spending ways. He sure would like to get to know her better.

The night wore on, and the drinks flowed freely. Clayton managed to catch the eye of the object of affection a couple of times; she had even smiled at him once. He had no idea how much money he had gone through but knew he had made two trips to the trunk of his Cadillac. The last he remembered it was after 3 a.m., and he was stumbling toward the Cadillac.

***

Santos entered the house without knocking. Luis was on the couch trying to become small, hoping Santos would somehow overlook him. It didn’t work. Santos was standing in front of him, glaring down.

“Get up,” Santos said, barely above a whisper.

“Please,” Luis started to plead.

Santos backhanded him, “For once, be a man! What does my sister see in a sniveling worm like you? Now, where is the car?”

“I don’t know. I looked in the garage again, and it isn’t there.”

Santos backhanded him once more. He then grabbed a wad of Luis’ shirtfront and cocked his fist to unload.

“Wait! Wait! I know where the car is! I just remembered. I missed the payment, and it must have gotten picked up. The man I bought it from said if I missed just one payment, he would come to get it.” Luis cried out desperately.

“Who is this man?” Santos asked, fist still cocked.

“Clayton’s Autorama on Tidwell Road. It is Clayton that sold me the car.”

Santos released his grip, and Luis fell back. He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a bottle of beer. After sucking down half the beer, he wiped his lips with his hand.

“Go clean yourself up,” Santos called over his shoulder.

Luis glanced down and noticed the front of his pants were wet. He got up off the floor, “What do we do now?”

“We are going to see this man, Clayton, so that he can return my property. Now, go clean yourself up. You disgust me.”

They climbed into Santos’ Mercedes CL550 and made the 10-minute drive to the car lot. They parked down the street so that they could see the lot but not be seen.

“Now, I am going to get a little sleep, and you are going to watch the lot. When you see him, wake me. Do you think you can handle that?” Santos asked, reclining the driver’s seat.

“Yes, you can count on me,” Luis said, hoping for redemption.

***

Clayton woke feeling like someone was driving railroad spikes into his brain, and his tongue was wearing a fur coat. He was fully clothed and wrapped like a cocoon in the blankets of his bed. Also, there was no Jessie Mae. He supposed he had struck out.

After showering and swallowing a handful of Tylenol, Clayton was on his way to the lot. No Marvin’s for him tonight, straight home to bed. That is if he made it through the day.

He turned into the lot. Tito’s truck was already parked next to the garage. Clayton parked in the space beside his office and made a beeline for his desk. He turned the air conditioning down as cold as it would go and fell into his chair. Clayton was pretty sure death could not be worse than this. He laid his head on the cool of the desk. He heard footsteps.

“Clayton.”

“Not now, Tito.” Clayton groaned.

“I am not Tito.” The voice sneered.

Clayton lifted his head and saw, through bloodshot eyes, probably the biggest man he’d ever seen.

“You have something of mine, and I am here to get it.”

“You got it, wrong buddy, I don’t even know you. Now, get out because I ain’t in the mood.”

The man was on him in a flash, pulling Clayton out of his chair. The man pulled him so close Clayton could smell his hot breath. He could now see standing behind the big man was Luis Gonzalez. Instantly, Clayton knew what this was about.

“You picked a Lexus up yesterday from my brother-in-law. I had some property in the trunk. I need that back,” Santos said.

“Hey, man, not a problem. As a matter of fact, I put it up for safekeeping. If you put me down, I’ll get it.”

“Go,” Santos said, letting him down.

Clayton walked over to the velvet Elvis and pushed it out of the way. His head was hurting so bad he could hardly work the combination; his fingers did not want to cooperate. After two tries, the safe opened. He started to stack the bills on the desk; when the safe was empty, he turned to Santos. He eyed the pile and then looked at Clayton.

“My friend, you are about three-quarters of a million short.”

“Oh, the other part is in the trunk of my car. I used some of it last night, but I would be more than happy to write you a check for whatever is missing,” Clayton stammered.

They walked out to Clayton’s car with Santos and Luis following. Clayton opened the trunk and saw nothing inside. He felt like he might puke. He dug through the trunk, but he knew he wouldn’t find anything. The money was gone.

“I don’t accept checks. We will go to your bank,” Santos growled.

“I don’t have that kind of money,” Clayton protested.

Santos landed a punch to Clayton’s midsection that dropped him like a sack of potatoes. He followed that with a short jab to the nose. Clayton rolled over onto his hands and knees and, since there was nothing in his stomach to vomit, started dry heaving. He struggled to regain his breath when another punch to the right side of the face knocked him flat. He rolled over onto his back and was staring straight up at Santos. The beast had not even broken a sweat.

“You have 24 hours. The idiot and I will be back tomorrow at this time. Have the money,” Santos said, turning to walk away with Luis following like a puppy.

Clayton lay on the ground for another five minutes trying to pull it together. Now he’d really done it. This man was going to kill him if he didn’t have $750,000 by tomorrow morning. He rolled to his knees and struggled to get onto his feet. Staggering into the garage holding his middle, the mystery of where Tito had been all this time was solved. He was duct-taped to the toolbox and gagged, his face already swollen from a beating.

***

Clayton walked into Marvin’s a half-hour later and took his usual barstool. His right eye was swollen, and he was having trouble breathing, so he thought there might be a broken rib or two.

“Jeez, what the hell happened to you?” Marvin asked.

“Tripped and fell.”

“That was one hell of a fall.”

“Drop it, Marvin. Listen, has anybody been acting weird around here?”

“You mean besides you buying everybody drinks all night?”

“Yeah, besides that.”

“No, can’t say there is then. Wait a minute. That new waitress came in and quit, said she’d won the lottery, and was leaving town.”

“Jessie Mae?”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“You know where she lives? She wanted some information on a car.”

“I’d have to check. Let me look real quick.”

This little girl thought she was going to get one over on Clayton Rifkin. She was wrong. He’d have the money back in no time, give it to the beast, and be back to his regularly scheduled life.

***

Clayton pulled into the run-down apartment complex that was at the address Marvin had given him. Apartment 341, he read from the bar napkin the address was scrawled on. He pulled into a space in front of building three and got out of the car. There was a group of gangbangers hanging around, eyeballing his vehicle. He’d have to be fast if he hoped to get out of here in one piece. He found 341 and starting banging on the door. A neighbor stepped out of his door dressed in a tank top undershirt, bathrobe, and house shoes.

“You lookin’ for Jessie?”

“Yeah, I am a friend of hers.”

“I dropped her at the bus station downtown about 45 minutes ago.”

“She say where she was going?”

“Naw, just that she’d inherited some money and was going back home to get it.”

Clayton was headed back to the car, and three of the gangbangers were blocking his path. Without breaking stride, Clayton drew the .357 from his rear waistband and pointed at the one he thought was the leader. Scattering like the cockroaches they were, Clayton did not have any more trouble making it to his car. He tore out for the bus station.

***

The automatic doors allowed Clayton's entrance into the downtown bus station. He did not see the girl right off. Still, it did not take him long to see her sitting against the wall. She was in one of those chairs that had the black and white televisions mounted to them that you fed quarters to for fifteen minutes of viewing pleasure, a large duffle bag at her feet.

“You know you almost got me killed?” Clayton asked as he walked up to her. “I’ll just take this.” He grabbed the straps of the duffle.

Her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, “What are you doing?”

“Taking back what you took from me. If you are smart, you’ll let me. This money belongs to one bad dude.”

“It’s mine now.” She pulled the strap out of his hand. “Help! Police!” She screamed at the top of her lungs.

Two Houston police officers turned at her scream and started walking toward them. Clayton saw a quick smile turn on the girl’s face.

“What’s the problem, miss?” Asked the first cop, whose sleeves were threatening to explode from the strain of his biceps.

“Oh, thank goodness you are here, officer. This is my ex-boyfriend. He beats me, and I try to escape him, but he keeps chasing me and bringing me back. I don’t know what to do.”

In unison, both cops turned to look at him. They eyed him like he was pond slime, “Is that right?” asked cop number two, who was a taller version of cop one.

“Yes, I have tried to get away,” Jessie said, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Officers, can I go? My bus is about to board.”

“You can go, miss; we’ll take care of this gentleman,” said cop one.

“Thank you so much, officers. I can’t thank you enough,” she said, throwing the straps over one shoulder and hurrying off in the direction of the departures.

It took Clayton a full hour to convince the cops that he wasn’t what she said and explain why his eye was the size of a baseball. Clayton had to be careful what he said because he did not want to discuss why he was trying to get $750,000 back from her.

After the cops had released him, he went to the ticket counter and asked the agent where the bus left out of gate 20 was going. The agent told him that the bus was headed to Los Angeles and told him about where it should be now. He had lost over an hour, but those buses stopped at every little podunk town before they hit the open highway.

An hour and a half later, Clayton was on the I-10 west and closed in on the Greyhound bus just ahead. Now, all he’d have to do was follow to the next stop. He had not worked out yet how he was going to get the money back. Something would come to him.

The bus finally exited at Columbus and pulled into a convenience store that doubled as the bus stop. The store was one of the older ones that had the bathrooms outside on the building's side. Clayton parked out of the way where he could still see the bus and the bathrooms. He could not believe his good fortune when he saw her coming around the corner, holding a key attached to a hubcap. He waited until she went in, pulled up next to the door, got out, and waited for her to come out.

When the door opened, and she emerged, Clayton grabbed her around the waist, and his hand clamped over her mouth. He threw her into the car, grabbed the bag, and ran around the other side before she could get back out. He threw the car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot.

“You freak!” Jessie yelled at him.

“You wouldn’t give me the money any other way.”

“You can’t just kidnap me.”

“I ain’t keeping you. I just need to give the money back to its rightful owner. You just happen to be in the way.”

“That money is mine. I found it.”

“In my trunk, that ain’t exactly out in the open now, is it?”

“You know we could just take that money and disappear.”

“I’d need a whole lot more than what is in that bag to risk my life. I met this dude; you didn’t. He wants the money, and I aim to give it back. Then good riddance to you both.”

“I still say it’s mine,” Jessie said, crossing her arms.

“How’d you manage to get it anyway?

“You were so drunk you didn’t know what you were doing. I saw you go outside, and every time you’d come back in, you bought two or three more rounds. So, the last time you went outside, I followed you. I saw you digging around in the trunk and walk back in. You didn’t close the trunk the whole way. Imagine my surprise when I opened that trunk lid. I stuffed it all into an old pillowcase I found in the back room. I went and bought a bag, looked up the first bus headed to LA; you pretty much know the rest.”

“Hmm, you stole it,” Clayton snorted.

“Whatever, you can’t prove it. I ain’t going back to jail.”

“I told you, I am taking this money back, and then you can do what you want.”

***

The shadows were growing long when Clayton finally got back to Houston. He pulled into the lot next to Tito’s truck. Grabbing the bag, he got out of the car. Wincing, as every muscle in his body protested.

“Boss! You made it back,” Tito called out.

“Yeah, got the money too.”

“Whew, I was worried.”

Jessie climbed out of the car, “What about me?”

“Who’s that?” Tito asked.

“The source of my ass-kicking,” Clayton wryly answered. “I told you to do whatever you want,” Clayton told Jessie.

“Can I hang around? I ain’t got no place to go,” said Jessie.

“I don’t care,” Clayton sighed.

They all looked up when the black Mercedes turned into the lot. How’d they know I was back?

***

“You have my money?” Santos said, climbing out of the luxury car.

“Yeah, it’s in the bag. Let’s not do this outside,” Clayton said, turning to go into the office. In the office, Clayton put the bag on the desk and opened it.

“You are $6,000 short, my friend,” said Santos, after completing the count.

“Yeah, about that. Like I said earlier, I kind of used some of it.”

Santos’s fist slammed into Clayton’s stomach, dropping him to the floor. Clayton was on his knees, dry-heaving for the second time in 24 hours. This was getting old, quick. Santos was grabbing Clayton when the unmistakable click of an ammo clip seating stopped him. Everyone turned toward Jessie, who was holding a Sig Sauer 9mm steady as a rock.

“Hold it right there, big man. You ain’t hitting him again,” Jessie said in a steely voice.

Santos stood to his full height and started to walk toward her, “Don’t make a mistake you can’t come back from.”

“You need to stop right there. Get your money and get out.”

“Nobody pulls a pistol on Santos and lives to tell about it. Now, you are going to have to kill me, chica.”

“Okay, have it your way.”

***

A month later, Clayton had his legs crossed at the ankles on top of the old battered desk. He had his Stetson tipped back on his head, rolling a toothpick around in his mouth.

“Whattya want for lunch?” Clayton asked his new salesperson.

“It don’t make me no difference,” Jessie Mae replied.

“We’ll wait for Tito to get back from his run and get him to go get us something.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said, standing to stretch, “Here he comes.”

Tito pulled into the lot, driving a new tow rig. It was decked out in all the latest gadgetry. The price tag was just shy of $100,000, but Clayton considered it an investment into the business. Tito walked in, wiping his face.

“It’s a scorcher today,” Tito said.

“Yep, hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk. What y’all think about that CL550 up front next to the Lexus? Think we’ll have any buyers?”

“It did only have one owner, and he didn’t really say much when I got it from him,” Jessie Mae said.

All three burst into laughter.