Love Songs: The Wrong Note - A Collection of Short Stories

3

I was tasked with chauffeuring the Baby Bandit.

It was 1934.

So many had taken to the roads as the choking dust storms in the drought-ravaged mid-west killed any hope of making it in America. Everyone I knew was scraping by, hoping against hope, to find a job, to feed their kids, to make it through another day.

Savannah owned a Packard convertible. Plenty of horsepower and a piece of auto heaven. We were cruising around the rougher sections of town, standing out like naked whores in a cathedral.

"There! That one!" she said from the back seat.

"I dunno," I said. "Kinda scrawny, ain't she?"

"You are paid to steer. Not advise," she said, the acid dripping from her ruby lips.

"But, ma'am," I said, feeling the sweat soak the armpits of my navy jacket, "don't you think we're more than a little, I dunno, splashy? Cars like yours ain't seen in these parts, you know."

"I know I want her," she said. "And I know that my signature is the one that appears at the bottom of your paychecks."

"But, ma'am," I said, still trying to make her see sense, "Judge Budge ain't gonna be happy if he gets blow back on this. There's only so much he can hide. Budge ain't your daddy."

"Listen, cretin," she said, "she is just what Muriel Montgomery begged me to find. She's perfect, do you hear me? Perfect. Now, go get her. Bring her to me."

"How?" I asked. "I mean it's broad daylight."

"What do I care how? Steal her if you have to," she said, pulling out a small compact and powdering the end of her greasy nose.

I swallowed hard, trying not to vomit on the immaculate uniform I had been forced to put on for our 'little jaunt' down Poverty Lane.

"Take me home," she said. "Drive your heap back here. Your car will fit in perfectly. Find out where she lives. Here's a twenty. Spend it however you wish. Just get me that child. Go back tonight and take her."

"From her bed?"

"From whatever rock she is sleeping under," she said. "And Jackson, do not disappoint me. Muriel has promised me a front row seat at the Academy Awards if I come through for her. The Oscar is hers. Guaranteed. And I want to see her when she gets it. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said softly.