CURMUDGEON (2018 Watty Wildcard Winner)

Chapter Nine - Richard

The Cadillac's white wall tires sang on the wide, flat expanse of highway. Their music was accompanied by the low thrumming roar of the engine, a powerful beast in a metal cage.

Richard closed the leather book and slid it into the glove compartment. Very deliberately, he removed the reading glasses from their perch on the end of his substantial nose, folded them, and slipped them into the breast pocket of the button-down shirt Stanley purchased for him that morning at a Wal-Mart outside Chicago. The printing in the book was tiny, smudged in places, nearly illegible in others. His progress through the pages had been slow, yet so much information was packed into each sentence his brain felt heavy and full with new and preposterous information. "You've been doing this your whole life?"

"Since the day I told you about."

"Busar wrote about that day in the book."

"He did." Stanley, his eyes covered with stylish black sunglasses, never turned away from the road. Traffic was increasing as they drew near to Minneapolis. It didn't help that it was the time of day when the masses migrated from their workplaces back to the suburbs where they lived. Stan wove between the cars fearlessly, ruling the road in the impressive automobile.

"It looks like someone else made the earliest entries."

"Busar had a teacher, just as I did."

"And you made the most recent notes."

"That's right."

Richard rode in silence for a while, staring out the window at the cars they passed. The awe-filled gazes imbued him with the delightful buoyancy of pride. Even being a passenger in a car like this was a privilege. It would figure life gave such a vehicle to friggin' Stan Kapcheck. Wasn't that always just the way?

They turned off the highway and wove through the increasingly narrow, maze-like streets until they reached the Hyatt hotel. Stanley told the boy who tried to take his keys that he would prefer to park it himself after they checked in and they entered the massive lobby with its book-lined wall and roaring fireplace. Richard followed Stanley to the long, black front desk.

"Can I help you?" A lovely young woman with skin like smooth brown silk asked. Did fancy hotels ever hire ugly people? Seemed the ugly clerks worked at the kinds of places he had been subjected to the few times in his life he'd bothered to travel.

"We need a room for the evening," Stanley said. He removed a Minnesota driver's license and an American Express Black Card from his wallet and placed them on the counter.

The young woman examined them for a second and then glanced up through her lashes. "It would be my pleasure to help you," she said, her voice a smidge more breathless than it had been a moment before.

"I appreciate that."

Richard rolled his eyes.

She went to work, tapping her keyboard and asking all the standard questions and then held up the ID, the credit card, and two room keys in a little white envelope. "Here you go Mr. Turlington. I put you in an accessible room. There are bars in the bathroom that may be helpful for your father. Is there anything else I can do for you? Anything at all?"

"You're very kind, but I think we're all set."

Hot blood flooded Richard's face. "Young lady! I'll thank you to--"

"Oh, that's very nice, Dad. But I've already thanked her. Come on, now. I'll help you up to the room."

Richard yanked his arm out of Stanley's embrace and turned toward the elevator on legs that trembled with rage. "How dare you?" He said, once the shining golden doors had closed, effectively separating them from the lobby. "And who in tarnation is Turlington?"

Stanley chuckled. "Just a little joke, Dick. Life's too short to be so serious all the time. And Turlington is an unfortunate chap who met up with a Zorastrian demonic spirit two years ago."

"So you just help yourself to his ID and credit card?"

Stanley raised an eyebrow at Richard. "I borrowed his name. Not his bank account."

"And the car, the guns, the money? That's all stolen, I assume?" He couldn't claim to have lived a perfect life, but he'd never been a thief and he wasn't about to start now. He felt like a fool for not having realized sooner that Stan Kapcheck was thief as well as a detestable coxcomb.

"I didn't steal any of it, Dick. For a man who doesn't move very fast, you certainly are quick to jump to conclusions."

A bell chimed and the door slid open. Stanley held one hand in front of the sliding door and motioned to Richard to go ahead of him.

"I won't be a part of illegal shenanigans, Stan Kapcheck. If that's even your name."

Stanley tipped his head in acquiescence. "I'd never dream of luring you into shenanigans, Richard." He held out one of the room keys. "I believe you'll find our suite at the end of the hall. I'm going to park the car and then I'll join you."

When Stanley returned from his chore, Richard was stretched full length on the single most comfortable bed he'd ever laid on. He'd tried to resist, but the thick white coverings were too great a temptation for him. The last time he'd pulled anything close to an all-nighter an actor from California was running the nation. The struggle to even stay awake long enough to ask the question that he'd been considering since he closed the leather journal was a mighty battle. "Why are we here? In Minneapolis? It's not on the way to Tombstone at all. Is there some kind of magic here we're gonna need to fight the skinwalker?"

Stanley shed his jacket and shoes, striped down to his pristine white boxers and t-shirt and slipped beneath the covers of the unoccupied bed. "We are hunting a good night's sleep, Dick. I'm exhausted, and of all the hotels in the US, not one has more comfortable beds than this one."

Not sixty seconds later, he was snoring softly. Richard wanted very much to stay awake and be angry with Stan, but it really was a fantastic bed and sleep was too sweet a mistress to resist any longer.