Diary of a Heretic: Extra Insurance

After the break-in Wardell rode his own bicycle all night. No way could he relax enough to eat or sleep—best to ride as fast and hard as possible, not that he expected it to dissipate his anger or sorrow, not that he expected anything.

The destruction sickened but did not surprise him. Still, it threw him far beyond who-done-it, even past that trap, vengeance. He did not trust himself the same as usual. When he and Jim boarded up the back door, Wardell looked at Jim directly, prompting him to speak up.

Jim said, “I don’t know.” Meaning he knew no better than Wardell if Idiot-Nate did this. And while Wardell’s judgment teetered uncharacteristically, Jim gently pressed his finger between Wardell’s knuckles, a spontaneous gesture, which startled Wardell at how much it meant.

James hated to think it was possible Nate had called in some thugs. Nate and Alison had left The Gallery without a word that night. For months now, James did not recognize his first protector and friend-for-life Nate. Except now and then when Nate would smile, dropping an arm around him, and for a second the real Nate peered out before his eyes fell dead again. Then he’d spill a line of coke on his arm, offer it to James, call him “Dumb ass,” and inhale it himself, one more, and one and one, again.

The next day, Wardell had no time for guessing games. The insurance companies were working fast. A salvage crew carted away everything in the store. James wrote up lists of the tools and parts he used. By afternoon Wardell needed a designer to choose new paint and carpeting, the lighting, and displays. The insurance company named a design firm, but Wardell wanted a referral from someone he knew. Lexi worked freelance for some marketing firms and her contacts recommended the same Italian man. Ennio designed all kinds of stores, but he loved bicycle shops; his father had owned one in Turin. Ennio was willing to put off his current job for Wardell. He arrived in a cab and drew a layout on the spot. By two in the afternoon Ennio had two painters prepping the surfaces before applying the primer.

When the new computer arrived, Wardell gave James DVDs to install: back-up records through February. Wardell telephoned his suppliers, most of whom had heard the news. Except for custom-made parts, like the seats Wardell used, the suppliers agreed to make a special delivery as soon as he was ready for the merchandise.

Shortly after six, Ziggy stepped into the cycle shop, stumbling over the painters’ tarps. Wardell did not greet his neighbor with a neighborly, just-folks manner this time. He finished what he was doing on a laptop while the bar owner spoke.

“Police contacted me yesterday. Their first questions involved Trevor. They asked if he owed me money and how much, since they supposedly did not already know.”

“If they knew Trevor’s tab, why would they ask?”

“So maybe you didn’t tell them. Everyone knew Trevor drank at my place, and that now he’s run off.”

Wardell crossed his arms, and stood there perfectly still, perfectly silent.

Ziggy continued, “By law my bar closes at two a.m. on weeknights. No one saw or heard anything. I did not do this and neither did anyone I know.”

“You told the police the truth? Always best if you can tell the truth.”

“I honestly told them everything they wanted to know.”

James watched Ziggy leave. A nervous static emanated from him so powerfully that the sleek, self-satisfied man James had seen two days ago gave the illusion of a much older, hunched up man, with oily white hair to his shoulders and the trace of a limp.

When the day’s light grew dim, Wardell added more clip-on work lamps to those the painters had brought. At six-thirty, only James and Wardell remained.

“I want to show you something, Jim. The police checked my record, which is nonviolent and twelve years ago. As a shopkeeper now, I qualify for a permit.”

Wardell removed a big pistol from beneath the cash register. “Ever shot a gun?”

“When I was little, my father took me target shooting in the country. Twenty-twos.”

“You only use a forty-five to kill someone.”

He handed the gun to James and showed him how to release the safety.

“If someone comes in to rob the store, don’t hesitate. Pop the safety, point, and shoot.”

“What if the robber has a gun?”

“All the more reason to be ready. Pull this out and don’t worry about aiming. Point at close range and fire.” Wardell emptied the weapon of bullets and handed it back. “Try it a few times, Jim. So you know how it feels.”

It felt heavy and very deadly. James practiced popping the safety, pointing and shooting.

“This pistol this big has a kick. A skinny guy like you should plant your feet so it the explosion doesn’t knock you back. And aim a little low because the nose will recoil upwards..”

James practiced until it no longer felt alien to him. He handed it back to Wardell, who dropped the bullets back in the chamber and clicked the safety on.

“Doubt very much you’ll ever need it. Just know it’s here.” He laid it in a slot by the cash register, grip out. “But if you ever think some guy’s going for a stick-up, don’t hesitate. Don’t even blink, Jim. We’re within our rights.”

(To be continued)