I wonder how many people drive up to a hotel at 1:00 a.m. and try to retrieve a stranger’s things. In Lakeside? I suspect the risk is low, but Scott is only doing his job. I tamp down my brewing impatience and slide my driver’s license over to him.
“Be right back,” he says, barely glancing at the license. I collect it and slip it back into my wallet. I realize I have not a dime to tip this kid, nor do I have a working credit card for gas. This is not the best scenario as I must hurry back to Columbus. I look around for a camera, but of course I don’t see any. Lakeside Inn is a trusting, folksy place devoid of crime and suspicion, apparently. Slowly I walk around the counter, and see what must be the cash drawer, slightly ajar, just in front of where Scott had been sitting.
I reach over, open the drawer, and extract all of the twenty dollar bills and the one fifty dollar bill in there, shoving them into my front pocket. I push the drawer closed and return to my original place in front of the reception desk, making sure my face is still kind, and friendly.
Only once I’m safely back in position on the customer’s side of the desk do I realize I should have stolen his tip. Oh, well. Poor kid will just have to survive on my smile.
“Here we are, Mr. Strom,” Scott says, appearing through the same door he’d disappeared through a moment before, now rolling out a luggage cart containing my suitcase and briefcase. “This is your stuff, right?”
“It is. Thank you, son,” I say as he pushes the cart around to my side of the desk. I grab my suitcase, yank up the handle, slide my briefcase on top and, nodding to the helpful boy, roll quickly to the door.
“Sir, are you sure you won’t be checking in? There’s still a room reserved for you.” Scott calls to me as I am almost through the door.
“No, son, change of plans. But thank you. Have a good night,” I say, with another big smile for the lad. I feel a little terrible he will be accused of stealing the money in his drawer, and no doubt be fired. But it’s a good life lesson. He should have been more careful, should have locked that cash drawer before he left his post. You just never know who you’re dealing with, despite appearances.
As I roll my bags to my car I realize I should check and make sure Mia put everything back in my suitcase, but I’ll have to do that once I arrive back home. I pop the trunk, shove the briefcase and suitcase inside, fight the urge to look around again, and quickly climb into the car. I lock the doors, turn the key in the ignition. Before pulling away from the curb, I consider my options. What I know I should do, what I want to do, is start driving, head for Port Clinton, and then the highway to take me back home. But another part of me wants to circle back to my cottage, have what you might call the final word with Buck and my wife. That is what Buck will expect, I’m sure, especially if Scott tips him off that I’m not checking in.
Maybe I’ll just drive by the cottage one last time, you know, on my way out of the gates. It will give me time to think things over, although glancing at my gas gauge, I know I don’t have much time to think without filling up. As I drive down Second Street heading toward my cottage, I smile remembering my petty theft. If I’m lucky, Scott won’t check the cash drawer for the rest of the evening and whoever replaces him on the morning shift will assume Scott took the cash. He is an untrustworthy teenager, after all.
If I’m unlucky and Scott notices the missing twenties, surely he won’t think of the kind stranger, dressed nicely, obviously successful and from the city. No, it would have had to be someone else, earlier in the night. I was nice to him, although I didn’t tip him. If I had taken the cash, surely I would have tipped him, he’d reason.
Unless Buck has told him things about me, spreading more rumors darkening my name. I will need to get in front of Buck and his lies. I drive slowly around the corner at the Boones’ cottage. It’s dark and unmoving, as it should be at this time of night. In contrast, across the street, my cottage is awash in light. There are two squad cars parked in my driveway and through the brightly lit windows I see too many people walking around inside my family room. I spot Mia through the window, sitting on the couch, my couch, drinking a cup of tea, feeling all smug and secure. She’s surrounded by cops, telling the little sob story of her unhappy life. Poor little crumpled, gray Mia. Her husband was such a bad man. He gave her a big house, two healthy boys, a life of leisure beyond most people’s wildest dreams.
I touch the shiny pen I placed on the passenger seat. It’s cool, like my wife.
Unlike me, Mia is a spoiled brat who got everything she wanted, everything she deserved. I put the pen in my pocket, turn off the headlights and park one house down from ours on the same side of the street. There aren’t many streetlights in Lakeside, none near our cottage. The stars are obscured by clouds. It’s dark, very dark on our street. Mia complains about that, but I am a creature of the shadows. I’m comfortable here, as you know.
I spot my target near his precious strawberry garden, the very thing that caused all of this. Buck has let his guard down because the cops, country guys who should be home banging their wives or swilling moonshine, are protecting her. One of the officers even sports a soul patch on his chin, so three years ago. I turn my attention back to Buck. Buck’s retreated to the garden, my garden, letting the authorities comfort my gray blob of a wife. He’s such a loser. It’s so easy.
I creep into my yard undetected. He doesn’t even know what’s hit him from behind, until I do, my rage overpowering his supposed training. I have him in a choke hold. Buck fights like the tough guy I know he is, but I’m stronger. He skids the heel of his shoe down my shin, but he’s wearing tennis shoes, lame. I squeeze his neck tighter, hear him gasping for breath. I pull him to the ground behind the strawberries and straddle his chest. I punch him in his pretty face, direct contact with that dimple, that perfect jaw. The sound is thick, satisfying.
My hand stings. I love it. It makes me feel alive. I kick him in the side, once. I hope to crack a rib. That should keep him from humping my wife for a while. I stand above him. He rolls to his side, tries to stand but I’m not letting that happen. My shoes are dress shoes, with a pointed toe. I aim at his temple, then his ribs, and I kick his throat. He moans and then is still. Take that, tough guy. I’m done here. I won’t kill him. No, that would be too easy. I feel the heavy pen in my pocket, imagine it sticking out of his neck, piercing his artery. I like the image, but I want him alive. I will make him pay for what he’s done to me, slowly, over time. But I assure you he will pay for ruining my life, for stealing my wife. When he least expects it, I’ll get my revenge.
I hear voices and duck behind the strawberry bed. The cops are heading out, walking to their cars. The idiots are going to leave Mia alone, in our house. I cover my mouth with my hand; my white smile could give me away. I’m like a shark, lurking in the depths, waiting to strike.