Style, you
either have it or you
don't. And if you have it, you have it
all the time.The Lovable Rogue
by Tux Toledo
Page 5
"Come
on, let's go over here." Bernie led me to a small balcony
overlooking the Mark Hopkins hotel.
"In some trouble?" I asked.
"You can always tell, can't you?" he snickered.
I didn't have to answer.
"It all started with Jill," he said, staring at the street
below. "She's beautiful, don't you think?"
I shrugged. She wasn't ugly.
"Well, I got so involved with her that I would have done just about
anything to impress her."
"And you did?" It was the typical scenario.
"And I did," he nodded.
"What have you gotten yourself into this time?" I asked.
"Well..." Something inside of him held his voice
back. His words were on a leash and they wouldn't come out.
"What is it, Bernie?"
"This girl Jill," he said. "She's a real high
roller. I didn't know it when I met her but she has family
ties."
"Nothing wrong with good breeding," I said.
"Family as in mafia," Bernie said.
"What?" A pair of pliers gripped my stomach. Bernie
had really done it this time.
"And that's the good part," he rolled his eyes. "You see,
Jill knows I've got a plane, the one I use to spread a pet's ashes over
the ocean."
"You use an airplane for that? Are you serious?"
"Yes. I cremate the pet and after the funeral I put its ashes
into an urn and dump them over the ocean."
"Why don't you use a boat?"
"I enjoy flying," he shrugged.
"Oh." I guess I'll never understand some things.
"So what about Jill?"
"Well, she arranged for me to fly to Mexico, meet this man, and bring
back some cocaine."
"What!"
"I wanted to impress her."
"Bernie..."
"So I did it."
"How in the world did you get away with it?"
"I don't know," he shrugged. "There's a legitimate
organization that arranges group flying trips to Mexico. I
was part of the group. The man I met in Mexico said it would
be all right and it was."
"So where does the bad part come in?"
"Well, I've since learned that the Feds are on to Jill and they're just
waiting for her to make her move. If I deliver the cocaine to
her I'll be arrested, too."
"That's how you got away with it," I said.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"The Feds let you get away with it. It's a setup,
Bernie. Don't deliver the cocaine."
"But if I don't deliver it to her by tomorrow her mob friends are going
kill me."
"Doesn't Jill know the Feds are on to her?"
"I've told her but she doesn't believe me. She thinks I'm
stalling, that I'm trying to sell the cocaine myself."
"What kind of mob girl doesn't know when the Feds are on to her?"
He shrugged and then turned his stare back to the street. San
Francisco's summer fog had chilled the sidewalks and the natives who
walked below walked in heavy coats; the tourists shivered like oysters
on a bed of ice. Several minutes passed before he spoke again.
"So, what should I do?" he pleaded.
"Where's the cocaine?"
"It's hidden in my mortuary," Bernie shivered. Poor lad.
Bernie ran his hands over his beeswax until a guest spotted him and
started toward us. He made a gesture toward her that was
intended to be a wave but looked more like the hand movements of a
pantomime.
"Will you help me?" he finally asked.
"I'll see what I can do."
Our conversation was cut off by the arrival of an aging femme fatale
dressed in a metallic gown that looked as if it had been assembled from
spare airplane parts.
"Bernie, how are you?" she asked, her intrusion made more irritating by
a squeaky voice that sounded the way her clothes looked.
"I'm fine," Bernie said to her. Then he glanced at
me. "This is my friend, Winnie."
I cringed. If he expects me to continue helping him he's
going to have to get my name right.
"Nice to meet you," she said in a strained monotone. She then
ignored me and turned to Bernie.
"Guess what?" she said. "I received a call today from the
Chestermans. They're in Belgium and they don't like
it. Can you believe that? A call all the way from
Belgium. I've never had a call from Belgium before.
Anyway, they've decided to come home early. I'm having my man
pick them up at the airport tomorrow."
I was jolted by the news. The Chestermans owned the house I
was staying in.
"I've got to go, Bernie. I've got to pack."
He looked at me funny.
"And my name is Winston!"
© 2008 David Biagini