Sleet: Selected Stories

Who the hell’s he think he is? That’s what I’d like to know. Treating me like that? But he don’t stop when I call after him. He just keeps going, right up to the open-air dance floor. Don’t take him long to get a girl on his arm, and head out on the floor with her. But me, I just get the cold shoulder when I try to follow suit. So it’s all about the money. That’s all that counts in this goddamn world. Guess I’ll just have to win the lottery. Then I can come back and dance till my heart’s content. I don’t see anybody I know. But what do I care? I was born and bred here. But when you go away and spend twelve years in Stockholm, you learn a thing or two about the world. So I walk around and mix it up with folks. I can be pretty damn entertaining when I want to be. Bashful is something I’ve never been, so I make the rounds and lay on the charm with some of the gals. And I get them to loosen up and enjoy themselves. Some start laughing their asses off. I ain’t no tongue-tied farm boy, wet behind the ears. No siree! I know how to be smooth with the ladies, and that’s a goddamn fact.

And lo and behold! Here’s the tin-knocker, so plowed I can’t figure how he made it past the doorman. But this is good, ’cause now I can give him a piece of my mind. I go up and grab him by the collar.

“Listen, buster!” I say. “If you think you can treat the old man any old way you please and get away with it you got another goddamn thing coming!”

“Who the hell are you?” the tin knocker says.

“Knut Lindqvist,” I say. “If that rings a bell. He was a good man, tried and true, and you got him all liquored up and then sent him on his way. And believe me, you’re gonna live to regret that!”

I get more and more furious by the moment. Tomorrow the old man is getting buried. And this no-good tin-knocker’s got so little respect that he’s out getting plastered the night before.

“A mouthful of my knuckles is what you got coming,” I tell him. But somebody’s right there, grabbing my arm before I can let it fly. And then a circle of gawkers closes in around us. Not that I mind. At least now they’ll know what sort of bastard the tin-knocker is. I spin around and there’s the deputy, brass badge pinned to his chest.

“We don’t want no trouble from you, Lindqvist,” he says, the meddling bastard. “Time for you to go home. You got a father to bury in the morning. Try not to forget.”

And I know just what to say back to him, the prick, but now Doughboy comes by with his arm around a woman, saying: “Come on, Knut-boy. Let’s get out of here. I got another eighth at home we can demolish.”

Another eighth!

He must really think I’m plastered, trying to feed me a line like that. Probably trying to save the tin-knocker’s ass. And now the goddamn deputy’s lecturing me for getting soused. What a crock of shit! If I was that gone I’d have jumped at Doughboy’s line. But this deputy’s a strong son of a bitch, old as he is, and now the tin-knocker’s flown the coop. Shitting bricks, I expect. Maybe he’s hiding outside, or hightailing it down the road. I’ll ask Doughboy to get the car and we can chase him down, and then we’ll see who has the last laugh. He’s a good fella, Doughboy, so he’ll do it, I’m sure.

I’m more than happy to leave of my own free will, though the deputy is right behind me giving me his two cents worth. Don’t know who died and made him dictator, for Christ’s sake.

“Can think of some newspapers that would be interested in this situation,” I say to Doughboy and his girl.

“Yeah, yeah, OK,” Doughboy says, like it’s all I been talking about.

Can’t get me out of there fast enough because the goddamn deputy keeps pushing me in the back.

“Let’s go, Lindqvist,” he says, pushing me along.

“That’s spelt with a ‘qv,’ — you just remember that!” I say, in case he thinks he can treat me like trash. The doorman’s eyes open wide as I walk back through the turnstile. Probably thinks he’s seeing things, the dimwit.

“Just wait till newspapers get hold of this story,” I say to him, and I’d say he looks pretty nervous. The thought of getting exposed in the papers — that’ll put the fear of God in these hicks every time.

There’s that goddamn hole again! Now Doughboy’s sweetheart is gonna think I’m drunk. She’s a pretty little thing, that one. I’m walking behind them, giving her the odd pinch here and there. And Doughboy, he tells me to keep my goddamn paws to myself. That’s the problem with him. Can’t handle his liquor. Otherwise he’s OK. He gets into his car with the girl climbing in right after him. Then I squeeze in the front seat right next to her. They probably thought I’d get in the back, but why the hell would I do that? It’s fun to crowd in next to a woman. Who would pass up a chance like that?