Short Stories from Wing's Authors.

Just Another Charlie

by

H. L. Chandler

Barnaby Davis knew a good thing when he saw it; after all that, was his business. Just as a good diagnostician could detect a specific disease in a patient, Barnaby could quickly spot a person possessing the symptom of needing his money removed. Barnaby's clients never came to him for this service, but they were plentiful all the same. He found them on street corners, in buses, restaurants, bars, parks; the entire city was his place of business. He had only to let his eyes roam a short while until his gaze would settle on his newly found customer. Well, perhaps they weren't exactly customers, but they were his source of income. Barnaby did not refer to them as suckers or easy marks as did some others in his line of work. Thinking of them that way might weaken the sincerity of his approach.

Barnaby had plied his trade for some thirty years and was content in his chosen occupation. The passing of time had brought him a bonus in the form of his appearance. His receding grey hair made his high forehead even higher and the dark violet of his eyes had paled to a soft blue. So at fifty-five his smooth face, with its quiet smile, looked like nothing so much as a neat, kindly uncle. A distinct advantage in his work. At first, in his ardent youth, he had aimed high, thinking that one big take was all he needed. However, over the years it became evident that he could make a comfortable income doing one or two operations a week. He had ethics. He took pride in his work and executed every move according to his own exacting standards. First, there was his protection. He followed strict rules calculated to prevent apprehension by the Law. Perhaps luck played a part in keeping Barnaby out of the clutches of law and justice, but he felt his own cunning had preserved him. Barnaby never oppressed widows or orphans. With so many opportunities, it wasn't necessary to inflict hardship on the needy. He also held his greed to a minimum. People were not likely to call the police and admit their stupidity when only a small amount was lost.

Barnaby gave a tug to the jacket of his ordinary grey suit under his modest topcoat. Another rule, never look too sharp. Then he headed for the Crystal Bar. Having worked dry his various other haunts he was anxious to see what prospects the Crystal might offer.

It was a small intimate lounge, having almost as many seats at the bar as in the booths. This suited Barnaby fine, as he never bothered with the Charlies seated in booths anyway. Contact was much easier to make with a lone one at the bar.

There were two empty stools between Barnaby and the young man he was cautiously but intently observing. The night began to look promising. Through long experience, Barnaby had cultivated the ability to accurately size up his Charlies, as he called them. This one had the look of a traveling farm boy about him. He looked ill at ease in the obviously cheep new suit he wore, and the stiff manner in which he held himself indicated he was not accustomed to his surroundings.

Barnaby usually tried to work out a skillful approach, but this time he felt it unnecessary. He casually placed his pack of cigarettes on the bar at arm's-length away from himself. After a short time, he reached out to pick the pack up again. Instead, he knocked it to the floor, making sure it sailed in Charlie's direction.

Just as he had calculated, Charlie quickly hopped off his stool to retrieve them. Barnaby moved down the two spaces to take them from the outstretched hand.

"Thank you. I don’t know what makes me so clumsy."

They exchanged a friendly smile and Barnaby started to take his original seat, but hesitated and said, "Say, would you mind if I joined you. Or are you waiting for someone?"

The young man shook his blond head from one side to the other. Barnaby smiled the fatherly style he reserved for his more youthful game, and sat beside his target for the evening.

"A fellow should never drink alone you know." Barnaby confided.

Again, the response was merely a nod of the head. Hum, Barnaby thought, Charlie here may be a tough nut to crack if I can’t get him to open his mouth. Barnaby needed a little information before starting work. It didn’t do to plunge in blind.

Then suddenly a callous covered paw nearly bumped Barnaby’s nose. "My name is Robert Down and I’m glad to meet you."

Barnaby moved his head back, reached up to shake Robert’s hand, and lowered it to a more reasonable level.

"I’m Barnaby Davis. I am happy to meet you, my friend."

Robert ducked his head and said, "Sure is nice to have someone to talk to. I was getting lonesome sitting here by myself."

"I know the feeling. But surely you have friends or family close by?"

"Nope. I left them all back in Junction Springs." Robert stopped then quickly added, "That’s where I come from."

"I see. And are you living here now?"

"No. I just stopped at that hotel down the street for tonight. In the morning, I’ll be going on to New York. I’m gonna get me a job there."

My, my, Barnaby thought. He had to restrain from rubbing his hands together. Travelers usually carried enough money to satisfy his modest ambitions and the fact they would soon be gone suited him very well.

"Say now, perhaps I can entertain you for the short time you will be in our fair city, Mr. Down. It is Mr. Down, isn’t it?"

A small embarrassed laugh accompanied Robert’s answer, "That’s right. But you don’t have to call me mister. All my friends call me Bob." He chuckled again and said, "Back home it’s kind of a joke about my name. Bob Down. Some of the fellows got real smart one day and started calling me Bob Up."

Barnaby forced a smile, Bob’s joke not funny enough to promote a real laugh.

Bob waited a second and continued as if he thought Barnaby didn’t understand him. "You know. Like jump up or hop up." Bob used his hands to illustrate this explanation.

Shades of Hicksville, Barnaby thought. For business purposes, Barnaby mustered up a hearty laugh while his mind was busy deciding which of his routines he should use. He felt sure his capacity for alcohol would far surpass that of the bumpkin at his side. It almost insulted his artistic nature to settle for any means that simple. Yet, a menial task now and then never hurt anyone.

"I’ll tell you what, Bob; since you’re a guest in town let me buy you a drink."

"Now that’s real considerate of you. And I’ll buy you one too."

Barnaby raised his hand in protest. "Oh, no. I couldn’t let you do that. I’m sure you need all your money for the rest of the trip to New York."

"Don’t you worry none about that." Bob inclined his head to one side. "I wouldn’t come off without I had plenty to last me." He patted his tightly buttoned hip pocket. "I got close to a thousand dollars. What do you think of that?"

Barnaby’s eyebrows went up as he said, "I think that’s a fine amount."

Barnaby signaled to the thin, balding barkeep and ordered another drink for the two of them. As the bartender poured their drinks Barnaby stared at a spot somewhere between the third and fourth button on the white shirt before him, and engaged in what most people call counting chickens before they are hatched. Of course, he would leave the boy enough to get out of town. Chances are he wouldn’t remember how he got back to his hotel. Barnaby would get his key from him making it unnecessary to stop at the desk. Yes, that would be good, and then if he watched his step no one would see how good old Bob got to his room.

The gangling youth took his turn at buying a round, and then Barnaby ordered them set up again. This went on for some time and Barnaby wished Bob wouldn’t be so free with their money.

He watched Bob closely for the first signs; a slight slur to his speech, although Barnaby thought that with this rube a slur would be indistinguishable. Maybe it will be his eyes. With some guys, it's always their eyes first.

Several drinks back Barnaby had started pacing himself. Slowing down, he was soon a half drink behind. Then he worked it gradually to the point of refilling at the same time but being a full drink behind his companion. Theory being, the more drenched Bob became, the less Barnaby would have to drink.

According to Barnaby’s projection, his fish should have been ready to scoop up; but something strange was taking place, or more precisely not taking place. Bob sat there knocking off one glass after another showing no signs of inebriation.

"Say, Mr. Davis, you’re kind of slowing down aren’t you?"

Barnaby had reached his limit. He didn’t like to drink on the job and was sorry he tried this particular device on Bob. How was he to know, as Bob so colorfully put it, that his daddy weaned him on corn squeezings? Barnaby slapped his hand palm down on the bar and said,

"What’s the matter with me? Here I said I would entertain you this evening and I just keep you here talking with me." Barnaby leveled a broad wink at Bob as he continued, "A healthy young fellow like yourself must have more than a drinking thirst that needs quenching, right?" Barnaby let a slight leer creep over his lips. Then, increased it to full volume when it was obvious Bob didn’t know what kind of thirst he meant.

Barnaby tried several approaches to the subject, thinking that perhaps he wasn’t using terms familiar to Bob. At last, in desperation Barnaby said, "Look Bob, what I’m trying to say is how would you like a nice girl tonight?"

Barnaby Davis did not intend to produce a bedtime playmate; it was not necessary. He would simply take the money and leave his catch waiting in some hotel room for a non-existent service.

Bob again tucked his head down and gruffly chuckled, a habit that was fast becoming annoying, and said, "Oh yeah. I gets you now." Bob jabbed Barnaby’s ribs with his elbow. "For a while you had me going there; didn’t know what you was talking about."

Barnaby’s head developed a methodical thumping and he began to lose his benevolent facade. He rubbed the painful spot on his side wondering how Bob kept from killing people with his physical punctuation.

"Well, how about it, friend? I could fix you up with a sweet thing." Barnaby pressed the point.

Bob wrinkled his nose and ran his index finger along its side. "I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me. But absolutely no. I got me a girl back home and I wouldn’t step out on her for the world."

Barnaby spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders, "Believe me, boy, you won’t be doing anything wrong. This has nothing to do with a girl like yours. It’s just a little amusement for the evening."

Bob brought his huge hand down on Barnaby’s shoulder and said, "I know you’re trying to be nice to me, but I don’t want to hear no more about it. Why, I’m happy to just sit here and enjoy your company."

Barnaby mentally added his smarting shoulder to his growing list of infirmities and cast about for the next approach to try on Bob.

"I’ve got it. How about a nice quiet game of cards?"

"Mr. Davis, I swear I never saw anybody trying so hard to please. Now you don’t have to go out of your way for me."

In his agitation, Barnaby was almost bouncing on the barstool. "But I’m not. I want to play cards. I love to play cards."

Bob laid his hand on Barnaby's still tender shoulder, causing Barnaby to wince. "Why don't you just relax and enjoy yourself, Sir. You know, ever since you sat down here I’ve had a feeling that something is troubling you."

Barnaby looked at Bob with resignation. "Have you now." He lit a cigarette and snapped the lid to his lighter shut. "Don’t let it bother you. We all have problems, kid."

For the first time Bob’s face acquired a keen look of interest. "I knew it. I can always spot a fellow with troubles." Bob gave a little nod to his head and added, "Don’t ask me how, but I just knew."

"Don’t worry, I won’t ask you."

Bob rushed on despite the flat tone of Barnaby’s voice. "There wasn’t a person for miles around that didn’t bring their troubles to me. Why, that was one of my biggest pastimes--just helping folks that was in trouble."

Suddenly, a little bell went ding in Barnaby’s head and he sat straight up. Of course, how could he have missed it? Big sympathetic boob like Bob. The sick mother routine, that's the ticket. He'd need to bring Clara in on it, but she was always ready to pick up an extra jack. Barnaby let his jaw hang slack and a little sob broke his voice.

"How could you tell?"

Bob’s chest expanded several inches and he gave a satisfied looking smile as he knowingly nodded his head. Barnaby watched Bob from the corner of his eye as he continued.

"Yes, I have been trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of gayety." Barnaby glanced up to see how he was going over. The look of concern he saw made him want to shout eureka!

"You see my dear mother is very ill. I would love to rush to her side, but circumstances forbid it."

Bob leaned nearer. "What circumstances is that?"

"Well, I’m short of money at the present. What’s worse, now Clara can’t go home either. Oh, how could I have been so stupid?" Barnaby hoped he wasn’t over doing it, but from Bob's expression he was right on target.

"Wait just a minute here. I didn’t get all that. Who is Clara and what stupid thing did you do?"

"I’m sorry. I know I’m not making myself clear, but I have been so upset." Barnaby sighed deeply. He was particularly proud of his sighing; he felt that it had a real pity invoking quality.

"I'll try to start at the beginning. My sister, Clara, and I live here hundreds of miles from our saintly mother. Just yesterday we received a telephone call saying we should come at once because mother is very ill. Clara being out of work has no money of her own. I have been just getting by. However, I did manage to scrape six hundred dollars together."

Barnaby did some fast figuring before he settled on six hundred as a goal. Of course, that wouldn’t all be profit, but five hundred would. The amount was large enough to seem real, but not so large that it would cause hesitation when he called on Bob to do his part.

"Yes, I had the money to send Clara home, but more than anything I wanted to go with her. Oh, how can I tell you what I did then?"

Bob seemed entranced. He looked as if he were ready to shake Barnaby to make him continue his tale of woe.

"I thought if I could get into a small card game with what I had, perhaps I could run it up into enough for both of us to go home."

"And you lost it!" Bob proclaimed like the voice of doom.

"All but one hundred dollars." Barnaby lowered his head until his chin nearly touched his chest. "Even now Clara is home getting packed. She thinks I have the money." Barnaby glanced around the room as if looking for a clock. "She is going to meet me here in a short while to pick up the money and then start right home. I'd call her and make some excuse, but being out of work she had to give up her telephone."

Bob shook his head and made a clicking sound with his tongue, "My, that is a shame."

"What a pity it is." Barnaby put his hand to his head.

Then suddenly he brightened as he exclaimed; "I just remembered something. Several months back I loaned a friend five hundred dollars. He might have enough to repay me now."

Barnaby pulled out his cell phone and quickly dialed the number for the local time and temperature. Then he carried on a one-way conversation. Ending with, "Thanks, Sam, I'll be right over."

With his best confident smile Barnaby turned to Bob. "Good news! Sam can pay me back."

Bob laughed, "Hey, that is good."

Barnaby once more assumed a frown. "No that’s bad. If I leave now to get the money I’ll miss Clara, and if I do, she’ll miss her bus. That would make her wait until the next one and who knows, by then it might be too late."

Barnaby sweated out a second or two wondering if Bob was going to fall for this line. However, Bob seemed too caught up in the story to notice anything wrong. Then Bob broke into a face-splitting smile.

"Here’s where you are going to find out how helpful I can be. I’ll wait here for your sister and you can go on to get your money."

Perfect, just perfect Barnaby thought, then he said, "Would you do that? How kind you are." Then he hesitated a moment as if a thought came to him. "But that won’t do any good. What if I get back late? She would still miss her bus."

They sat in silence until Barnaby decided that enough time had elapsed for him to think of a solution.

 "Bob, you don’t know me. I’m only a fellow human struggling along like the rest, and believe me I will understand if you don’t want to do this, but I have a plan."

"You just tell me what it is. I'd be a dirty dog if I left here without helping you."

Barnaby slipped a ring off his finger. It appeared to be a modest sized diamond set in gold. Bob's eyes widened and he whistled as Barnaby put into his hand. Then Barnaby took out his billfold and extracted one hundred dollars, placing that also in Bob’s hand. Bob looked puzzled and Barnaby held up his hand to silence him.

"You wait here for Clara. If she comes before I get back give her the hundred, and here is where you really come in. Loan her five hundred of your own. You keep my ring for security; I assure you it is worth far more than the loan you'll make."

Bob frowned and Barnaby could almost see his thought process.

"If you get back in time you’ll have the money for her?"

"That’s right..." Barnaby agreed. "...but if she has already been here I’ll give it to you in return for the loan to Clara."

Understanding illuminated Bob’s face. "I see. I would get it back tonight. I wouldn’t be loaning it for more than what, a half hour, or so?"

"At the very most. At any rate, you’ll still have the ring." Barnaby assured him.

Barnaby directed Bob to a corner booth and set him up to wait. He told him that whatever he did, stay in the same booth. That was where he and Clara were to meet. He would know Clara by the red scarf she always wore. So advising Bob, Barnaby hurried out onto the street.

It was misting rain and streetlights made shimmering, pale yellow halos where their beams struck the pavement. Barnaby scurried over the few blocks to Clara’s walk-up apartment, wishing Bob had risen to one of his other baits. It was chancy using Clara when he had made no previous arrangements, just as was his leaving money with Bob. Still, every business required some investment. Besides, he would have it, plus five hundred, back in no time.

Barnaby had used Clara on occasion and although she didn’t look like anyone's sister, she would pass in the dim bar. As Barnaby climbed the stairs he calculated how much Clara might want for her few minutes of work. Surely she'd settle for a quick fifty.

 He found Clara at home and explained the set up to her. He arranged to meet her around the corner after she had made the take. Getting ready to leave he added, "It isn’t worth much, but try to get my ring while you’re there. He might go for some story about you needing to pawn it for extra money."

Clara nodded her brassy blond head and with all the bearing of a veteran, she sallied forth.

Barnaby stood in a doorway; his collar turned against the wet wind, and watched the clock in a jewelry store window across the street. He was just settling down for his wait when Clara was suddenly beside him. Barnaby jerked the cigarette from his mouth.

"What the hell are you doing here so soon?"

Clara’s thin lips tightened in a sneer. "You lost the mark. You know better than to drag me out on a night like this when you don’t have the thing jelled."

Clara’s scorn was a blow to his pride.

"You must have missed him. He would never have walked out. I know my Charlies better than that," Barnaby insisted.

Clara drew her jacket closer about her pudgy body. "Well damn you, Barnaby. I’m not standing around freezing. Next time you call me make sure it's a go."

Clara stalked off toward her apartment and Barnaby rushed around the corner to the Crystal Bar’s entrance.

Once inside he looked in every booth and searched down the row of customers seated at the bar. Satisfied he had not missed him; Barnaby headed for the men’s room. Maybe he got sick or something in spite of his daddy’s corn squeezings. Barnaby scratched his head; he was puzzled and disappointed. Walking to the end of the bar, he motioned to the bartender and then leaned part way across the bar.

"Do you remember me? I was in here earlier with a young fellow, with blond hair."

The bartender nodded his head up and down, causing the light from the overhead spot to cast a glimmer on his bald patch.

Barnaby licked his lips. "Did you see him leave after we moved to the booth?" He jerked his thumb in the direction of the opposite wall lined with booths.

"Is your name Mr. Davis?"

"Yes, that's right." Barnaby answered.

The bartender reached into his shirt pocket and handed Barnaby a slip of paper. "Here then. He left this note for you. Said something about needing to rest for his trip tomorrow and that you would understand."

Barnaby hurriedly unfolded the paper as the bartender went on about his duties.

The handwriting was firm and the note perfectly clear.

Dear Mr. Davis. I can’t tell you how glad I was to help. Even without the scarf, I knew your sister right off the minute she stopped by my seat. It seems you didn’t need to worry none about getting more money for her. She said the hundred dollars was plenty. Your friend, Bob.

P.S. I gave her your ring, so you’d be sure to get it back. She seems like a real sweet girl.