Fat Tony -- Section Twelve

[Quick Update -- The Spring Child tied for first at the TusCon short story contest, and I've got a Barnes & Noble gift card to prove it!  Very nice people at the convention and the other stories sounded very interesting, too.  If they are posted online, I'll put a link to them.  Until then, enjoy more of Fat Tony.]

    Fat Tony found a bench and sat.  He sat for a while, and while he sat, two thought ran through his head.  The first was, I did it for Grandma, and the second was, Why did I do it for Grandma?  Why was she involved with the stupid rabbits anyway?  For money?  Possible, but Grandpa hadn’t left any debts that Fat Tony knew about, and Grandma owned the house free and clear.  For Roger?  That was believable, he supposed.  People do stupid things for love—like growing beards that make them look like refugees, or selling their collections of classic horror stories to pay for ‘friendship’ rings, or helping their grandmothers escape from the FBI—to pick a few examples at random.  So it was believable, but it didn’t seem likely.  Tony hadn’t noticed any romantic overtones, harmonies, or lilting melodies around Grandma and Roger.  Though, come to think of it, he didn’t know what new romance would look like in someone over sixty-five.  Maybe that was passionate love.
    Was there any way to fix things with Sarah?  This side of turning in his own grandmother, that is.  Probably not.  Flowers don’t fix everything.  Actually, in his experience, flowers had never fixed anything.  He did suspect that, the few times he’d thought to start using flowers, he’d started too late.  The little Dutch boy had so much success in keeping the dike from collapsing because he got his finger in the hole early.  When the dike is already in pieces, holding up your finger just means your finger is the first part to get wet.
    Unexpectedly, Mr. Robinson’s ape sat down next to Fat Tony.  If Tony hadn’t already been feeling on the dark side of bleak he might have been surprised.  As it was he simply nodded while, between the two of them, they dwarfed the bench.
    “Dude, I’m sorry,” said the bodyguard.
    “You saw that?”
    “It was rough.  My girlfriend broke up with me last week, so I know what you’re going through.  She was convinced I was seeing another woman.”
    “Were you?”
    “Yeah.”
    “That might have been why she was convinced.”
    “You have a point.”
    “I see to the heart of things, it’s true.”
    “So why did the other woman dump me, too?”
    “Both of them?”
    “Within twenty-four hours.”
    “Maybe you do know what I’m going through.”
    “That’s why I have—what’s the word?—empathy.  I have empathy for your situation.”
    “For me,” said Fat Tony.
    “What?”
    “You have empathy for people, not for situations.  Situations don’t have feelings.”
    “Are you making fun of me?”
    “Absolutely not,” said Fat Tony.  “I’m far too tired to make fun of anyone.  I’m just pedantic sometimes.”  When the bodyguard’s face darkened, Tony hurried to add, “It means I pay too much attention to dumb details.  I really wasn’t trying to mock.”
    “Good.  I asked, because I’m trying to be nice here, even though I figured out that ‘Dr. Goodall’ joke you threw at me.”
    “Ah.  Sorry about that.  I was feeling nervous, going to Mr. Robinson’s home.  He’s an impressive man.”
    “Don’t sweat it,” said the ape.  “You’re under a lot of pressure.”
    “More than I signed up for,” said Tony.
    “I’m Douglas, by the way.”
    “Fat Tony.”
    They shook hands.
    “Do you need another minute?” asked Douglas.
    “Another minute before what?”
    “Before you talk with Mr. Robinson.”
    “He’s here?”  Fat Tony sat up and looked around.
    “Nah, we’re going to call him on my phone, but we can wait until you’re ready.  You’ve been through a lot tonight, I can tell, and Mr. Robinson isn’t in a rush.  You can take some time to pull your thoughts together.”
    “How did you find me here?”
    “Besides following you everywhere you went?”
    “I suppose that works,” said Fat Tony.
    “Usually,” said Douglas.  “You decided yet?”
    “Decided what?”
    “If you need another minute.”
    “I think I already took one.  Give him a call.”
    Douglas nodded and used quick-dial.  A short exchange over the phone and then Fat Tony was holding it.
    “Mr. Robinson?”
    “Fat Tony!  I heard there was some difficulty for you tonight.  Something involving the FBI.”
    “It worked out all right.”
    “Of course it did, Tony!  Of course it did.  You’re all smart people, so I’m sure all the products are still safe and your grandmother is in the clear.  Am I right?”
    “Grandma’s fine.  So is Buttons.”
    Fat Tony thought he heard tension in Mr. Robinson’s voice.  “She had Buttons with her?”
    “I couldn’t tell you the difference between Buttons and Bootsy and Betty Boop, but she said she had Buttons and I don’t think she was in a lying mood.  Except to the FBI.”
    “I’d like to see Buttons again,” said Mr. Robinson, and Fat Tony realized the tension was longing.  Mr. Robinson had feelings for the Cottontail!
    “You liked Buttons?” he asked.
    “That Cottontail was…special,” said Mr. Robinson.  “Which, however, is beside the point entirely.”
    No, thought Fat Tony, that’s so much on top of the point, there’s no way you’re sitting comfortably.  All that talk about rich people needing something to love—you didn’t make that up out of thin air, did you, Mr. Robinson?
    “The real point,” continued Mr. Robinson, “is that your grandmother is having difficulties with law enforcement.  This is an area where I might be able to help.”
    “How exactly could you help?” asked Tony.
    “We don’t need to go into details.  Let’s just say that I have ways to move things along.  You know the highway construction between Prince and…well, the downtown area.  You know it?”
    Fat Tony was stumped.  He was willing to admit, even to others, that he was a man of tangents.  He used them in conversations, he relished them in literature.  They were the seasoning that turned the boring gravy of life into something zesty that you shared with your friends and put on your toasted sandwiches.  But Mr. Robinson—just at this moment, mind you—Mr. Robinson had him beat.
    “Yes,” he said, finally.  “I know the construction.”
    “When you’re building a road, Fat Tony, there’s so much that goes into it all: the proper foundation, quality materials, and the heat of the blacktop.  Almost a refiner’s fire, if you will.”
    “I’m with you,” said Tony, “but I’m not with you.”
    “The point is, after all this, there is still one critical element: the roller.  The massive juggernaut of steel that crushes all obstacles and leaves behind it a smooth road.  Shall I explain my analogy?  Your grandmother and her partner have laid an excellent foundation, the product is, without a doubt, of the highest quality, but on the road to a successful business and a contented future filled with wealth enough to give avarice a stomach ache—on that road, we’re finding some irregularities.  ‘Bumps’ might be a cliché word to use here, but a good one.  We’re finding ‘bumps’ along the way, and I’m the roller that can smooth them away.  Let me help you, Tony.  Let me flatten down the bumps.”
    “I’m…flattered at the attention, Mr. Robinson.”  Fat Tony hoped his complete lack of sincerity didn’t travel well across phone lines.  “I’m trying to talk with Grandma, but to be honest, I’m still having to figure out things for myself, here.  Once I have a better grasp of what’s going on, I’ll be sure to get in touch.”
    “Please hurry, Fat Tony.  This deal is important to me—very important—and I don’t want to have to take any drastic action.  It’s not every day that a businessman of my make and model has an opportunity to hold a dream in his hands.  I have held that dream, and, to be beyond frank with you, that dream is hard to let go.”  Mr. Robinson’s voice trailed away, and Fat Tony could almost imagine the little man shaking himself.  “This is a financial opportunity that comes once in a lifetime.  It’s time for you and your grandmother to take off the training wheels and step up to the plate.”
    Fat Tony wasn’t even going to touch that mixed metaphor.
    “I’ll do my best,” he said, and with a pair of goodbyes, they hung up.
    “Thanks,” said Tony, handing the phone back to Douglas.
    “Not a problem.  You know, my boss isn’t such a bad guy.”
    “Really?”
    “He acts like he’s tough, but inside he’s one of those marshmallow birds.”
    “Peeps?”
    “Exactly.  Those things.  Soft, pink, and kind of sparkly.”
    “Actually, I thought he acted more like a salesman.”
    “Right,” said Douglas.  “He acts like a salesman who’s really a tough guy, but he’s not actually a tough guy.”
    “So he’s a softy who’s pretending to be a tough guy who pretends to be a salesman?”
    “I think that’s what I meant to say.”
    “I gotcha,” said Tony.  “That’s a good description.”
    “I’m pretty good at description.  I write.”
    “Really?”
    “Poetry, actually.  People don’t expect it from me, but inspiration hits me and I have to put it out there for people to see.  My friends say it’s great, but you can’t trust friends.”
    “I’d love to hear one some time.”
    “Seriously?”
    “Seriously.  I’ve never had a gift for poetry.  I tried some personal essay, but I felt like I was lying the whole time.”
    “Actually,” Douglas looked embarrassed—an embarrassed anvil, “I’ve got one that I was working on while you were inside here with the FBI.  It’s fresh and I should rework it, but I think it’s not bad.”
    “Let’s hear it.”
    “Now?”
    “Why not?  I have no reason to hurry home.  I don’t have a car, and the FBI will be watching my apartment anyway, so the thought of taking a bus back just to stare at the ceiling thinking about how badly I screwed up with Sarah—let’s just say, I’d rather hear your poem.”
    Douglas reached into the side of his suit jacket that wasn’t armed and pulled out a notebook and pen.
    “This is fresh, right?  So don’t be too rough with it, okay?”
    “Douglas, don’t worry.  Just read it.”
    He nodded, taking a deep breath.  “Right.  I call this Reunion.  ‘You walk towards me, arm in arm with him, smiling like you’ve remembered every Christmas and melted them into soap, put that soap in a little orange bottle, and dipped a bubble blower in it.  You blew on that blower, and a bubble like a rainbow lifted out into the air, and it follows you while you’re walking with him.  But you left me, so I pop that bubble and break his jaw.’”  Douglas closed his notebook.  “What do you think?”
    “I’m speechless,” said Fat Tony.
    “Is that good?”
    “Yes.  Absolutely a good kind of speechless.”
    “Thanks,” said Douglas.  “I really go for the delicate images, like soap bubbles and glass and things you can break.  It seems more real to me.”
    Fat Tony was looking at the size of Douglas’s fists and rubbed a hand on his jaw.  “Very real.  I’m thinking I’ve delayed enough.  Time to catch a bus.”
    “Oh, don’t do that.  Let me give you a ride.  It didn’t seem like you had enough time to really eat your dinner, and there’s nothing worse than riding a bus hungry.”
    “Dinner,” said Fat Tony, and then he remembered.  “The flowers!  I left the geraniums at the restaurant!”
    Douglas stood up.  “We’ll swing by on the way.  Might not be too late.”
    “This is nice of you, Doug.  Can I call you ‘Doug?’”
    “I’ve read you one of my poems.  I think you have to.”
    Fat Tony stood and they started walking.
    “Tell me, Doug.  Is the girl you were dating seeing anyone else?”
    “Which one?”
    “Either of them.”
    “Not anymore,” said Doug.