The Retirement Plan

Chapter 2

"Catch that thief!" a shrill voice shouted at a pumpkin, vivid orange, with black stick arms. Stick legs in big white laced booties, just a blurred whirr, chased by a scarecrow clutching a candy bar wrapper. The pumpkin reminded Ricky of the old ad for M&M's, making him hungry. His hand scratched around in the enamel bowl resting on the cream cushion next to him. Empty.

Ricky glanced down, blinking, the navy pattern all wavy. Blinked again to focus. The primo Kush kicking his ass seven ways to Sunday. All the nachos demolished. He ran his finger over the enamel surface, collecting the orange dust remnants clinging to the bottom of the bowl.

The scarecrow wore slick wraparound shades and a three-quarter length black duster, like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix. An abundance of anthropomorphic fruit and veg on his ass. Little tomato-man screaming bloody murder. Who was dogging who here? Ricky observed the on-screen action with a gloopy grin. This is insane. What were kids watching these days? Whatever happened to Wile E. Coyote, endlessly pursuing that damned road-runner? Never caught him either, chasing the impossible dream. A life-lesson for the young-uns.

A sharp ringtone snapped Ricky back to reality. He fished his cell phone from his shorts pocket. With-held number. He let the annoying high-pitched tune play out. Fifth such call he'd gotten this morning, and he was oscillating between pissed-off and mildly paranoid.

Where were we? Scarecrow Keanu and his posse had trapped the thieving pumpkin in a barn... Christ! Ricky flinched. He glanced down at his exposed stomach, unbuttoned blue Hawaiian shirt emblazoned with palm tree motifs, hanging open. Burning hot ash nestled on top of his tensed abs, he brushed it off with a lazy sweep of his hand.

Two loud thumps echoed through the small, spartan apartment.

Ricky sprang to his feet. Showing remarkable agility for a 40-year-old guy who moments earlier was skating round the verge of narcosis. More thumping on the door. What the hell, man? Does he retrieve his piece from the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink? What if it's the police? Think, man, think.

"Yo, Ricky, you in there?" The voice has a definite ring of the familiar to it, but his stoned brain is having difficulty placing it.

Ricky padded barefoot to the door and peeked through the peephole. The guy outside, close to the door. And tall. All Ricky could make out was the white cotton shirt and silver chain. Chain looked familiar, too.

"Quit playing, man. I know you in there." Years since Ricky last heard that voice. Didn't think he'd be hearing it again anytime soon.

He slid the chain-lock across and dragged the heavy wooden door open. Reggie Mosely stood there, shiny bald dome, six-foot-something, amiable smile, in his cream cargo pants and tan leather sandals. Approaching fifty, but the slick bastard still got it going on. "Something the matter with your phone?"

"Huh?"

"Been ringing all morning, like the bells of Saint Peters."

"That was you? With-held number—you know I don't answer those."

"Was it?" Hard to figure if the man playing dumb or playing.

"How'd you get in?"

"Downstairs door was open, so I moseyed on up." That smooth tone, almost musical. With a mischievous undertone.

"Man..."

"Little ol' lady moppin' up the stair. Using that cheap bleach, stinking up the place, remind me of the joint. Ask her where the Irishman at. She looking at me crooked, don't know what I'm talking about. Say there's an estrangero up in dos bay."

"We're all strangers to them."

"True that." Reggie entered with a loose-gaited Billy Dee Williams swagger, eyes flicking in every direction, sizing up the environs. He brushed past Ricky, made for the living room, the portable TV catching his eye. "The hell you watching... Cartoons?"