This story was recently published by the Soaring Twenties Social Club. You can check out the STSC Substack here:
Irving Geary was a small man, about fifty years old, with a head of black curly hair and small round glasses perched on the end of his short nose. He was quiet and kept to himself. His neighbors thought little of him, if they thought of him at all, and he lived quietly in a small apartment in a suburb of Chicago. The ruling passion of his life was collecting small figurines, some of them hundreds of years old, and each completely unique.
Some were ceramic, others wood or bronze or glass.
Cows, pigs, sheep, lions, tigers, elephants, giraffes, hippopotamoi, deer, gazelles, elk, and moose mingled with farmers, shepherds, milk maids, knights, and soldiers. Some even formed a little group or tableau, sets that composed a scene with a farmer tending his cows or a shepherd guiding his flock or two knights jousting.
These little figurines covered every horizontal surface of Irving’s apartment. His father had bought him a little ceramic dog from a thrift store for his seventh birthday and ever since he had been collecting them.
The other passion of his life, if it could be called that, was his son and only child, Robert.
Robert, or Bobby, as his friends called him, was unlike his father in every way. He was indolent where his father was industrious, wasteful where his father was parsimonious, and had a penchant for gambling money he didn’t have.
Ever since Robert’s mother died, Irving had been as devoted to Robert as any child could hope for even though he borrowed money endlessly from his father, who earned a modest salary at an accountancy firm, and proceeded to waste it on gambling, alcohol, and other such vices.
Robert, of course, did not work but rather had settled comfortably into the lenient charity-shaped niche which his father had allowed him to occupy.
One day around five o’clock, shortly after Irving had arrived home from work, there was a knock at the door.
Irving set down his briefcase and opened the door to find himself bustled back into his own apartment by a large man, large being the operative word, who completely overshadowed the substantially smaller man behind him.
“Wha-hey, you can’t come in here! This is my house.”
“It’s an apartment, not a house, son,” said the short man. “Sit down.” He indicated the comfortably upholstered chair across from the couch on which he was already sitting.
Irving was not used to being invited to sit in his own living room but the presence of the large, impassive yet threatening goon indicated this was a request to which he wanted to accede.
Irving looked them both over quickly. They were both immaculately dressed in dark navy worsted three-piece suits with black leather shoes. The large man had a beefy face which matched his size and a high brow crowned by blonde hair. He stood to one side of the couch.
The small man wore a bowler hat, now placed on the couch next to him. He had a cheerful veneer constructed over a sly narrow face with a chin that came to a sharp point.
“Right then, son-”
“Don’t call me son,” Irving said. “It’s Mr. Geary to you. Now, what do you want?”
“Straight to the point. I like that. Your son owes me money, Mr. Geary. Quite a bit of money. And he’s behind on paying it back.”
Robert always borrowed from him and never paid him back but Irving had never imagined he’d get involved with a loan shark much less a dapper loan shark from the 20s.
“How much does he owe you?”
He flicked an imaginary bit of dust from his pant leg. “Fifty thousand.”
“You gave him fifty thousand dollars? Secured against what? He doesn’t work.”
“He showed us his collection of ceramic figurines. Some very old, very collectible, very valuable.”
“His! You mean mine. He doesn’t even live here.”
The short man shrugged. “He let us in. His, yours, it doesn’t matter to me. He’s late and I’m going to collect one way or another. Oh, not today, not right now,” he said in reaction to Irving’s startled expression, “but he has a week to get the money together. I take cash or Bitcoin.”
“What’s Bitcoin?”
“Nevermind. Just make it cash then.”
“I can’t get fifty thousand dollars in a week.”
The short man shrugged. “You’ll have to. Or else.”
“Or else what? You’re going to kill me?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t kill people.”
“He’s going to kill me then?” Irving said, pointing to the big man.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said I don’t kill people. He,” he pointed to the big man, “is me. Eh? Make sense?”
“Ye-es. Sure.”
“So then, one week. Fifty-thousand dollars. And everybody’s happy.”
“Assuming I can get the money, how will I find you to pay you, Mr.—”
“Laurel. Mr. Laurel. And this is Mr. Hardy.”
Irving grinned.
“What are you laughing about?” He turned to Mr. Hardy. “Why does everyone laugh when we tell them our names?”
Mr. Hardy shrugged almost imperceptibly.
“It’s just—well—”
“Yeah?”
“There was a comic duo—actors really—”
“Actors. Everyone always going on about actors. Do I look like an actor to you?”
“No, not at all.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s just—”
Mr. Laurel looked offended. “So you don’t think I could be an actor? What do they have that I don’t?”
Irving’s mind was reeling wondering how he’d gotten into this mess and looking for a way out. “Look, why don’t we just forget the whole thing. I’m sorry I laughed.”
“You should be,” Mr. Laurel said, placing his hat on his head. “It’s just a name. Who laughs at someone’s name? I didn’t pick it out. I got it from my parents. Do you think I picked out my own last name?”
“No, I did not think that at all.”
“Let’s go, Mr. Hardy.”
Mr. Laurel stopped in the open doorway. “Fifty thousand. One week. Five o’clock next Thursday. Or this,” he waved a hand around, “is mine. I’ll be here. Oh, and I’ll know if you try to run.”
Mr. Hardy slammed the door behind him.
Several figurines on a shelf by the door tottered. Irving rushed over to grab them before they fell down.
He clutched the three little horses in his hand and, through the gap in the blinds, watched Mr. Laurel and Mr. Hardy walk across the parking lot and get into a black town car.
A cold fury rose up inside him. The nerve of his son to put down his own cherished collection as collateral for his loan.
He called up Robert and told him to come over immediately.
Irving was back in the chair to which Mr. Laurel had directed him when Robert came in.
He was a slightly larger version of Irving without the glasses but with a little more fat. His eyes were green, unlike Irving’s brown, and always reminded him of his wife, who had had green eyes.
Irving supposed that was part of the reason he was so soft on his son—because he reminded Irving of her.
“What’s up, Dad? How’s it going?”
“Sit down, son.”
“Okay,” Robert said, still grinning.
“I had a visit from a Mr. Laurel and a Mr. Hardy.”
Robert’s face fell. “Ah—hm, well—”
“How could you even think to put up my collection as collateral? And why are you borrowing money from a loan shark? What do you think he, or Mr. Hardy I should say, is going to do to you when you don’t pay? And what the hell is a Bitcoin?”
Robert took a deep breath. “I needed the money, I needed the money, I don’t know, and it’s kind of like digital money.”
“‘I needed the money,’” Irving said, mockingly. “What did you need fifty thousand dollars for? I could have given you some, like always, so you didn’t have to go to a loan shark who will probably break your legs.”
Robert looked at the floor and mumbled.
“What?”
“I’m starting a business.”
“A business? What kind of business?”
“It’s a combination mobile discotheque and tax prep business. You party while we do your taxes.”
“You don’t know how to do taxes though, son.”
“I know.” He shuffled his feet. “I was hoping you might help.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. I know the party stuff. I can handle the discotheque and you can help with the tax prep.”
“I don’t know what to say, son. I’m flattered. I’m also surprised that you decided to start a business. You don’t exactly work. What do you need the fifty thousand for?”
“To buy an RV and convert it into the office slash disco.”
“Why didn’t you just get a business loan from a bank?”
“I tried but no one would loan me money. I went to every bank in Chicago and they all laughed me out the door.”
“It is an odd business and you don’t seem to have much of a business plan.”
“You don’t believe in me! You never did and you never will, will you?” Robert threw himself back on the couch petulantly.
“That’s been the problem, hasn’t it? I have believed in you. Remember the mobile dentist’s office? You’re not a dentist. And the mobile laundromat?”
“There was water everywhere.”
“Exactly. These things don’t really turn out, do they?”
Robert squirmed and pounded a fist on his leg. “It’s going to work. I know it. I just need time. And customers. If I pay back Laurel, I’ll be able to make this work.”
“I don’t know, son.”
“Dad, I can do it.” Robert’s eyes pleaded with him.
Irving sighed. “Fine. I’ll help.”
Robert clapped his hands. “I knew it. I knew I could count on you.”
“Yeah, yeah, but how the hell am I going to get fifty thousand dollars?”
“You mean, how the hell are we going to get fifty thousand dollars.”
“No, not you. Just me. You’ll just mess it up.”
“That hurts.”
“The truth usually does.”
Robert looked around. “You could sell the collection.”
Irving stared at him, boring a hole through the space between his eye sockets.
“No,” Irving said.
“What about the Queen Victoria?” Robert asked, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder toward a majestic female figurine in black, which bore a striking resemblance to the British monarch, displayed prominently on a shelf over the sofa.
“That was your mother’s. I won’t sell her. I won’t sell any of them.”
Robert threw up his hands and snorted in disgust.
Irving thought for a moment. “I’ll probably just have to rob a bank or something.”
Robert laughed. “Yeah, right.
Irving didn’t say anything.
“Dad, you can’t rob a bank.”
“Why not? I need money. They have money. Cash too. The exact kind of money I need. None of your digital bit dollar stuff.”
“Bitcoin.”
“I don’t care. Go on. I need to think.”
Irving shooed Robert out the door.
The next day, after having mused about where he might procure fifty thousand dollars without stealing anyone’s life savings, Irving decided a raid on the petty cash fund at work was in order. There was nothing petty about the petty cash fund, which contained, at any given time, at least a hundred thousand dollars. Being fairly well-placed within the company it was easy to obtain a check for the fifty thousand, although the branch manager’s eyebrows had to be scraped off the ceiling when Irving went to cash the check.
When he got home, Irving called Robert and told him he had the money.
“Fantastic! How did you do it?”
Irving told him about the petty cash fund at work.
“Won’t they miss it?”
“They might,” Irving said, “but I’ve cashed checks for work before. The amount is a bit large, a bit unusual but I should be able to pay it back from our profits.”
“That’s a big risk, Dad,” Robert said. “Well, since you have it, I can take it to Laurel,” Robert said.
“There’s time for that later. Why don’t you bring the RV by and I can take a look at it.”
“I wish I could but it’s too big to park by your apartment.”
“I thought it was supposed to be a mobile business. How are you going to drive it around?”
“I can drive it around but I can’t just park it anywhere.”
“That’s alright. I can just come by and see it.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “I wish I could show it to you now but it’s in the shop having work done. It will be a couple days at least. Just want to make sure the engine is tip top and all that. And the AC too. That’s important.”
“Okay well, let me know when I can come see it.”
“Ahuh. Are you sure you don’t want me to come over and get the money now? I’m sure Laurel will appreciate getting his money back. I’d sure like to put this behind me too as soon as possible.”
“That’s okay. He said he’d come to me to get the money—”
“No, Dad.” He sounded desperate. “I’m sure he’d want to get the money as soon as possible. I need to get it to him.”
“No, it’s fine, I’ll give it to him when he comes on Thursday.”
“Fine,” Robert said, and hung up the phone.
Irving brooded for the rest of the night. He didn’t hear from Robert again over the weekend. On Monday, he took the fifty thousand dollars with him to work, which was easier than it sounds because fifty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills is not a lot of money—only five hundred bills, to be exact, which fit neatly into his pants pockets. When he got home from work, his apartment felt off somehow, though he couldn’t tell what was wrong or if anything had been moved. He had the same feeling again when he got home on Tuesday.
On Wednesday when he got home from work he was walking through the living room into the kitchen when he noticed something on the little table in the hall. The table was crammed with figurines and on the corner was a small tableau of two jousting knights. Because the corner was on the outside as he rounded from the hall into the kitchen, he always took care to swing wide around the table so as not to knock the knights.
Yet upon looking closely, the two knights, one in forest green, the other in cerulean, were in the wrong positions—the green knight was supposed to be on the left, but it was on the right.
He knew then what had been done and what he had to do.
The next day at ten minutes to five there was a knock at the door of Irving’s apartment, but there was no one inside to hear it.
Robert tried the door then knocked again. Then he used his key and opened the door.
“Dad?” he said. “Dad?”
There was no answer. He started to look around for the money. Under the chair, behind the couch, under the cushions. Nothing, just like before.
Then he noticed the apartment seemed different. He looked around. Every horizontal space was empty. There was not a single ceramic figurine left in the living room. Not a horse or a pig or a knight or a farmer. Nothing.
He ran down the hall to his father’s bedroom. It was empty. Nothing in the bathroom. The hall table was empty. He ran to the kitchen.
On the counter, sat a small chipped ceramic dog. A dog in a sitting position. A dog that might be getting ready to jump up or lie down. An old ceramic dog with fading paint that still suggested brown fur and a pink tongue.
The dog was sitting on top of a note.
It read:
Dear son, I know you gambled the money away. There is no business. I’m returning the fifty thousand. At least Laurel and Hardy won’t get my collection. I thought you might like to have the little dog I left you. He was my first. My dad gave him to me. Now I give him to you. He’s the last thing I’ll give you. Good luck.
Robert read the note again. He stared at the little dog. It seemed to be mocking him with its tongue sticking out.
A noise made Robert turn.
Mr. Laurel was standing in the doorway. Mr. Hardy loomed behind him.
“Hello, Bobby,” Mr. Laurel said. “Where’s my money?”
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, strictly a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance, perceived resemblance, or similarity to any other fictional works, to actual events or persons, living or dead, and any perceived slights of people, places, or organizations are products of the reader’s imagination. This fiction is the result of a partnership between a human writer and the character(s) he accessed with his creative subconscious as he raced through the story with them. No AI of any kind, generative or otherwise, was used in any way to write this story.
"Well, here's ANOTHER nice mess you've gotten me into.."