Chapter 10

The Last Day

11:21:31 p.m.

Sitting smugly next to him, Tony’s partner this night sought companionship, having given up on love. He was happy to sit around and chew the fat all night if his friends could hold out that long. He would never give up and possibly miss something interesting. He was nicknamed “The Rat” because he loved to find out secrets about people and then “rat them out” to their coworkers and friends.

The name on his birth certificate had ceased to have any importance so long ago that Edgar Charles Smith IV never mentioned it. No one cared that he was fourth in a line of three American success stories. He was as successful as he wanted to be and didn’t need the baggage that came with his name. That baggage would hang around his neck like a noose for the rest of his life.

So “Eddie the Rat “or just “Rat,” would do fine.

Tony and Eddie sat with hard hats at their elbows and heartily dug into healthy-sized portions of meat and potatoes. They had worn their hats to dinner to keep the snow off their heads while they walked in from the street. Their tired banter livened up an otherwise dreary counter. Between ball games, actresses, action movies, possible new steel contracts, and the rising cost of living, they more than made up for a general lassitude along the rest of the counter.

Just past them sat The Accountant. No one bothered to ask his name, preferring to refer to him by his former occupational title. The Accountant rarely spoke. Other than the minimum number of words required to convey his desired meal, he remained mute, watching the ebb and flow of life around him.

In the old days, The Accountant had kept the books for the local version of the Pennsylvania Mob. His specialty had been turning enormous profits into small losses. His acumen would have been welcome in Hollywood, where many film company bookkeepers contended that the accounting for “American Graffiti” was still in the red. His steady, steely glint and absolute silence had earned him ever-greater responsibility until the sheer size of the duplicity would have made it impossible for even a rookie IRS agent to overlook.

Once the size of his task exceeded the trust of his Mob bosses, he was offered two choices. He could go away quietly or keep doing what he was doing and never breathe a word to another living soul about his work. The latter choice ensured his paycheck would continue to arrive in the person of the Mob’s favorite leg-breaker. The weekly sight of this walking mountain more than reminded The Accountant of the folly inherent in speaking out of turn. The leg-breaking courier was another customer of the Last Chance but not this night. He preferred lunch to late nights and almost never ventured far from home after dark.

With survival more precious than testing the intentions of a mob enforcer, silence was working out quiet well. The Accountant never so much as commented on the weather in public and rarely offered more than a passing sign of interest in a person’s health in private. Twice a year he took the train to Hollywood, Florida, and enjoyed three weeks of sunshine, horse racing, and the ever-diminishing beach attire of undergraduates, in that order. Other than those two forays into better climes, The Accountant stayed close to home, carefully watching his investment nest egg and by his silence reassuring the Mob of his fealty.

He might as well have been in prison for all the life he enjoyed.

Though he’d worked in a “clean” version of organized crime, no drugs, murders, or other violent, illicit activities, the Accountant was a man seemingly without a conscience. He ignored charities that collected for the poor, sick, shut-ins, and orphans, particularly at the holidays. He felt the world had too many useless people, and contributing meant that there would inevitably be more, not fewer, as people fell in love with living off others.

The only time he’d ever graced a church was to see the boss. He got out as fast as possible, afraid the place might rub off on him and he would start dressing like a choir boy. It was bad enough that the Mob was rife with “good” Catholics, who’d never miss Sunday Mass but also thought nothing of dropping a perceived enemy off a bridge with a concrete block chained to his feet. The paradox was too much for a realist like him. He would never be a big enough fool to fall for that mumbo jumbo.

Christmas meant people flocking into town, crowding the streets and making a nuisance of themselves. If they needed to see Grandma so bad, why didn’t they bring her to their house? Sometimes he fantasized that he was God and could simply point a finger and all these idiots would disappear. The idea made him smile and his smile was so unpleasant, people near him edged away. It didn’t matter because he completely ignored those around him.

Three stools were currently empty to the left of The Accountant but would soon hold two taxi drivers and a city snowplow operator. These three had a standing date. Within minutes of 11:00 p.m., they descended on the Last Chance for two hours of lively discussion and serious eating.

Rarely did any of them miss an eleven o’clock rendezvous, shift change and obstinate passengers notwithstanding. A little thing like a blizzard wouldn’t stop them on the last night. Their loyalty was surpassed only by the voracious desire to feed themselves and to gossip.

Born in southern Pakistan, the snowplow driver made a career out of appearing American. He wanted no one to mistake him for a terrorist sympathizer, Bin-Laden operative or anti-American troublemaker. He even tried to think in English and not his native tongue.

Raheem-Mahmood was the name given him by his parents who wished their third male offspring to prosper in better circumstances. With the kind assistance of a Human Resources officer at work, he changed it to Reggie soon after arriving in Pennsylvania. Reggie loved eating, women, and the Steelers, in that order.

He was as profane as any blue-collared, red-blooded, Pennsylvania country boy, and he loved to out-red-neck his red-necked peers.

What he didn’t have was a mate. As the third son of middle class Pakistanis, Reggie had been pledged in marriage to a girl who was likewise too far down the sibling ladder to rate a serious match. Their eventual union had been negotiated before Reggie had turned ten. Before the bargain had become complete, Reggie had been shipped out to America so that the first two males in the line would have fewer distractions.

The conveniently outraged parents of his intended had been calmed down by the offer of the second son. It seemed that boy’s mate had been caught in less than pure circumstances and that marriage bargain had collapsed as a result of a bulging midsection and impending, though unplanned, family addition.

Although he knew that daughters of devout Sunni Muslims weren’t likely to enjoy forbearance, charity, or kindness in such circumstances, Reggie had avoided dwelling on the current plight of his and his brother’s former fiancé. As close to concern as Reggie had ever come had been the night he whispered to his brothers over the phone, “I hope she got away and came to America.”

Reggie was not religious; he was Muslim in the shallowest possible sense. If asked, he would have said he was a devout atheist, and that would have been as close to the truth as one could get. He never prayed, thinking the Muslim rituals and behavior stuffy, hypocritical, and unnecessarily violent. The cleansing and dietary laws were just silly to him, and the rest of Muslim tradition seemed outrageously outdated and over-enforced. Many of its most devout practitioners were walking hate crimes.

One woman dominated Reggie’s thoughts: Cheryl Ann Womack. Her five-foot, four-inch frame was what dressmakers referred to as “generous.” Topping 180 pounds, Cheryl lived a shared life somewhere between reality and fantasy. In her dreams, she was svelte and chic, carrying “just a pound or two extra.” Her long, stringy hair was an imperfect combination of natural dishwater and chemical platinum.

Reggie had been smitten the first day. As he had walked towards the HR office to hand in employment forms, her cowbell voice greeted him. “You get your fat, stupid rear end out of here and back to work before I have you arrested for impersonating a human being!” He had been entranced when he saw her oversized figure scamper around the desk to threaten the offending employee into action. Reggie had been fully hooked when she spun around, saw his admiring glance, blushed the cutest color of red, and screamed, “You Get Back To Work, Too!”

He lived for the day when Cheryl would realize how perfect they were for each other. Careful to avoid even a hint of improper behavior, he had never so much as called her by her first name, preferring to use the proper Miss Womack instead.

Oh, but in his mind they were married, with four children running about. Happy as could be, he imagined them living comfortably on a snowplow operator’s wage. It was a comforting fantasy for a man who’d lived too short a time in America to appreciate the time-honored rules of courtship. Reggie did not understand that a man must strike up conversation. He must find topics of joint interest, even if he had to fabricate that interest. He must also offer supportive and enthusiastic agreement with whatever stance the female takes and follow it up with a request to discuss it further, perhaps over a meal. It had been easier to remain unattached and unnoticed.