By Any Chance
Chapter 11 Colonel Mustard in the Broom Closet
By Nicholas Nocketback

The sky was a cruel shade of white, an unmolested dry erase board. God’s sun had forgotten Fresno today. A chilled wind pushed its way through the interior of Evan’s Jetta as he waited outside the Chase Financial. A baker’s dozen of Mexican kids crossed the street in a single file line to a blinking red hand. The pole position rolled by on an old skateboard, juggling an armload of goods, the bulk of which stretching the bottom of the plastic bag he wore like a purse. The free arm cradled two economy size cans of Enfamil. His followers, all chewing large wads of gum with open contented mouths, trailed on foot, the last of which was pushing a stroller occupied by a large McDonald’s bag. Each one wore pants two sizes larger than necessary with faded black hoodies—like an urban Catholic school uniform. Evan sat, engine killed, mulling over the decision left hanging like an ellipsis. The kids turned the corner, running from a blue sedan slowing to fifteen before turning right on a red. Evan followed the Oaxacan parade visually until he could see them no longer. He couldn’t help noticing how each one held a certain position and responsibility. Leading the group commanded a mode of mobilization and what Evan believed to be the senior of the gaggle. All others, descending in size and seniority, seemed to carry specific tasks. The last of which had the assignment of carting the food and most cumbersome of transport.
Remembering back, he could conjure a nostalgic image of himself, Buckley, Tom, and Carlos striking out on their respective Diamond Back bicycles at seven in the morning, bellies full of bagged cereal and grape drink. Only in their assembly, they all had bikes, pocket change, and never once thought of their younger siblings back at home; that was mom and dad’s job. The one exception was Buckley. His folks had nearly nothing and what his father made at the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority, he drank away by the time he returned home. In fact, Buckley never really had money at all. It was a given that someone would pay for his way in a movie, his #3 at Big Frosty’s, and later his liquor. But what Buck neglected in monetary funds, he made up for ten fold in physical support. No one ever worried about trying to flee a foul situation with Buckley around. His threatening posture alone was enough to clear long lines at the J.P. Licks ice cream shop on oppressively hot summer days. Thus, no one ever gave him a hard time or thought twice of paying for him. Even after he got a job following high school, many of his squad would routinely pay for things, to Buckley’s opposition, of course. Although, since his father passed, Buckley sent much of check to his mother who’d been on disability since ’91 due to her diabetes. Evan, lost in thought, flinched at the sound of a bottle smashing against the curb in front of him. A man with a green plastic shopping cart knelt in front of Evan’s car and swept up clear shards of glass into his hand. He gently sifted them into the first of his four garbage bags, leaving the nominal pieces in the street before tightening up his recyclable cargo. Before pulling his cart, he looked at Evan through the windshield. He was not sure if he could see him or not, but Evan nonetheless glared back. The man’s hair and beard framed his face, all of which had the same hue. His salty brown locks seemed to grow in direct proportion with his facial hair; the overall effect seeming to appear that he had one uniform body of hair on his head, indecipherable from face to hair. His jacket was green (Spanish olive) and had a Dutch flag patch sewn into the left breast. Neither averted their glance for many seconds when the man moved on in the same direction as the children.
A sense of agency overcame Evan and he snapped back to life. Exiting the car, he dug into his Jansport and retrieved a passport and bank statement. He hadn’t checked his account since leaving Boston and was curious to see how much of it he could retrieve. The line was huge, extending past the withdrawal/savings kiosk. Evan waved at a female employee.
“Yes?”
“I need to withdrawal some funds from this account,” Evan shook his burgundy Chase Manhattan premium bankbook in the air.
“Oh, okay, right this way, sir,” she said, a loud buzz emanated from the doorway as she smiled widely at him.
The entire buildings’ occupancy faced Evan as he ambled toward the buzzing door, like he was walking on red carpet. The teller was welcoming and took his information and bankbook, offering coffee in return. Evan declined and opted to wait without, perspiring a bit already. “I’ll have to get a branch manager to help you; I don’t have the clearance…not yet, at least,” she tilted her head, auburn hair held up in a high ponytail, sweeping the crest of her left cheek, and exited the room.
Evan felt his anxiety wane after seeing her. As the minutes ticked by, he studied the petite room. The couch he was sitting on was maroon and appeared to be made of a faux leather material. A single desk with a flat screen monitor populated the room, nothing else. It looked as if the room hadn’t been used before. There was no stationary, pens, calendar, nothing that would lead one to believe that this was a living, breathing office. Eighteen minutes had passed before a short Caucasian man entered the room. His hair, or what was left, was slicked back, his suit a navy blue Men’s Wearhouse discount rack purchase.
“Evan Chance? William Barclay, nice to meet you. I handle the premium accounts here at Chase. It looks like you need one million dollars? Is that right?”
“Yeah, I wrote it down, didn’t I?”
“Yes, yes you did. I have your request here. You have the funds; we simply can’t get it to you right now. Is there any reason you need it promptly?”
“Bill, right? Look, when you go to the ATM and you need money, does the machine ask a series of questions before dumping out cash?”
“Well, no, but I don’t withdrawal one million dollars.”
“That’s because you don’t have one million dollars, Bill. Now, I suggest you go back there in that little steel room and extract ten thousand one hundred dollar bills.” Evan knew he was being far too sarcastic and that he was probably raising an air of suspicion, but he couldn’t help it. This abject series of events had left him numb. Fresno had offered him a caustic affair, one ill-fated E.coli ridden spinach death, the disappearance of said caustic affair—without a trace—and one mutilated human female body, the source of which was now being traced to him via some third party. Nonetheless, this is far more life experience than he’d had since.
“Your service is appreciated and respected here, Mr. Chance, and we at Chase would be out a very important customer were you to leave. You know what? I think I can assemble your funds by the end of the business day, if you can wait.”
“That’s the ticket, Bill, I’ll sit right here until you get it, got any books?” Evan snickered and couldn’t help feeling rebellious. This was his first taste of reverence and power. It seems all it takes is millions of dollars.
{::!::}
After twelve chapters of Paul Auster’s Mr. Vertigo, the only piece of literature in the bank and one in which the protagonist has the ability to levitate and eventually fly, kept Evan occupied until William came back. Auster’s rifling on a theme of life’s chances and the randomness that keeps us moving stirred him. Receiving his money in two cloth sacks, Evan tossed the goods into the Jetta’s trunk and departed. He arrived at the train depot at 5:30 and found Rose exactly where he’d left her. She was working tediously on the Bee’s word scramble; seeming frustrated and visibly put out. Evan scooped up three stacks of cash from his Jansport backpack; he still had almost all the one hundred thousand dollars left in the bag. The three bundle stack was precisely fifteen thousand dollars, five in each. Approaching the counter, Rose was oblivious to his presence and continued sounding out the scramble. The lettering read R-O-D-F-I-L.
“Dorfil, no, Roldif, no, shit, Drofil, goddamnit,” she puffed her cheeks and exhaled, fluttering her bangs in the process.
“Try FLORID, Rosy,” Evan leaned against the counter flashing—ironically enough—a florid, theatrical smile.
“Oh, no, look who’s back, Donald Trump, here. You wanna buy another hundred dollar pen and paper set, or did you wisen-up and find an Office Max? Oh, well, look at that, it works. What the hell does florid mean, though? That’s in toothpaste, right?”
“Florid, um, well…gaudy, or flowery, elaborate, ornate, baroque, something like that.”
“Well I don’t know what any of those mean either, but if it fits, I’m writing it.”
“Rose, has anyone come from that locker since I was here?” Evan pointed at #114 where he’d sat earlier.
“No, in fact, other than a couple boys selling See’s candy for their school, you’re the only one that’s been in. As you can see, business is boomin’.”
“I know I don’t know you, and I’m new to this town, state, really, but if you’re willing, I’m gonna trust you to help me out. It will be worth your while I can assure you,” he slapped a stack of hundred’s on the counter and furrowed his brow.
“Now, sweetie, you seem like a kind enough young man, and I’m hurtin’ for extra cash, Lord knows, but I can’t get involved in your little drug deals. I took this hundred before because you bought some pens, that’s it.”
“I understand your hesitancy and appreciate your concern, but Rose, this is important. Have you ever lost anyone close to you?”
“My husband, Dean, bless his soul, been gone ten years now and there’s not one day I don’t think ‘bout him,” she looked down, shaking her head ever so slightly, pursing her lips.
“Well, if I can trust you, Rose, I’d like to tell you my story. I believe you of all people can relate, and probably give me some advice.”
“So, you paying for advice?”
“Yeah, I’m paying for advice and your help in keeping an eye on my interests—and by interests I mean nothing to do with drugs. And, quite honestly, I’m paying for a place to stay.”
“That it?”
“Yup, no strings, just acceptance,” Evan’s face was earnest, but showed only a sullen, staid visage that Rose felt comfortable with.
~~`|||`~~
Pouring over the details of Evan’s life from the point of Jeanie’s death, took over an hour. He left nothing out and emptied his soul to Rose, a real catharsis of sorts. This depot was his confessional and Rose, a silent, sympathetic listener. Ending with the withdrawal of funds and producing the novel the message was written in; Rose reached out for Evan’s hand.
“It seems that you’re in some big trouble and you trusting me with this is an enormous chance you’re taking. I could call the cops right now, you now that?”
“Yes I do, Rose. But I trust you and you and I have experienced the same loss; only no one tried to capitalize on yours, and I know that infuriates you, as it does me. It’s not the money, it’s the principle.”
After agreeing on a time schedule, Evan gave Rose her portion, stuffed the million in the locker, and prepared to hunker down for the night in the storage closet with the key Rose gave him.
“Evan?”
“Yes, Rose?”
“I think I know who it is.”