Rice Whiskey & Muddy Water

By Bruce E. Weber

The characters in these stories are not prone to philosophical musings, inchoate longings, or gender identity issues.
Whether they be a tomb-painter in ancient Egypt or an astronaut returned from a long voyage, a waiter in a Three-Star restaurant or a soldier in the trenches of World War I, they each know exactly what they want, and they are hell-bent to get it.
In their struggles they display the same vanity, perfidy, mendacity and saintly aspirations found somewhere among all peoples, in all cultures and in all ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruce E. Weber
• Release date: Aug 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463171851

Bruce E. Weber

Bruce Weber grew up in Indianapolis, in the neighborhood that is the setting for Dark Manna. He moved to Arizona in 1998. He lives in Tucson, where he is self-employed. Bruce says the writer who has influenced him most is James M. Cain, who wrote the Postman Always Rings Twice, Double Indemnity, and Mildred Pierce. Of Cain’s work, Weber says, “Cain told more story with fewer words than any writer I know of, and from reading his books, I became imbued with his own worst fear: a gnawing terror of boring the reader.”

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The Smashwords Edition

RICE WHISKEY

& MUDDY WATER

Bruce E. Weber

Rice Whiskey & Muddy Water

Bruce E. Weber

a Stanfield Books publication

Copyright ©2019 Bruce E. Weber

All rights reserved.

Smashwords License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Please don't resell it or give it away.

If you want to share this book, please return to Smashwords and purchase an additional copy as a gift. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Disclaimer

This is a fiction book. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is a coincidence.

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Formatting and Cover Design by Debora Lewis

[e-mail]

This book is dedicated to my dear friend

and former wife, Pam Weber.

Table of Contents

Spiritual Food

Bend in The Mekong

Video Game

Special Situation

Dust

In Love With A Fat Girl

Orb Three-One-Eight

The Gates Of Paradise

A Truthful Liar

Over The Top

Oh Happy Day

Rice Whiskey And Muddy Water

About The Author

Other books by Bruce E. Weber

SPIRITUAL FOOD

IF YOU ASKED Vicente Breno what the most important thing in life was, he’d tell you without hesitation that it was money. But if you put a gun to his head, he’d admit that the most meaningful thing in life to him was a properly fried, expertly glazed yeast donut.

Vicente, known from childhood as Vinnie, had grown up in a rundown neighborhood on the east side of Indianapolis, in a two-bedroom apartment over Hassie’s bakery. He shared this cramped space with four brothers and two sisters, and every morning the underfed and over-disciplined Vinnie was awakened by the aroma of fresh yeast donuts wafting up from the storefront bakery below.

Forced to content himself each morning with a bowl of Frosted Flakes soaked in powdered milk, Vinnie’s earliest days began with a growing craving for those soft golden O’s, which he saw each morning as he passed the bakery window on his way to St. Martin’s school.

Back then, the school had a tradition called First Friday. On that day of the month the student body went without breakfast so as to be able to receive Communion. Almost all the kids had the one dollar necessary to buy two donuts and chocolate milk for breakfast, which was held in the gym, but not Vinnie or his siblings: their breakfast, consumed to their embarrassment in the midst of donut-gobbling fellow students, was white bread smeared with a thin layer of margarine and wrapped in bread wrappers. By the time Vinnie reached the eighth grade, this humiliation had gnawed at him long enough. He was determined to end this years-long frustration, for himself and his siblings.

Vinnie sought work, but his tender age, his swarthy complexion, his raggedy clothes and his innate belligerence did not endear him to prospective employers. In an act of desperation, he stole a case of Spam from the loading dock of Hopping’s Market, sold off the contents to his Hispanic neighbors, and with part of the proceeds bought his first dozen of those fresh, golden sugar-glazed donuts from Hassie’s bakery, and along with a quart of chocolate milk, sat down on the sidewalk outside and nearly ate himself into a coma.

Every First Friday thereafter, funded by Vinnie’s larcenous activities, he and his siblings wolfed down their donuts. Vinnie had elevated them in status to the economic level of their classmates, and he found that, to him, the delicious donuts were far more spiritually uplifting than the dry Eucharist dropped on his tongue by the icy fingers of Father Fry.

That memory of his first glorious, personal dozen nestled in Vinnie’s mind as a justification for any crooked deed he did in the years to come, but after reaching the age of eighteen and dreading the risk of jail, he started a seat-of-the-pants construction business and four years later entered the world of real estate, which he found to be much less dignified than crime.

In the years to come, Vinnie developed an inborn talent for making himself not only liked but respected by a complete cross section of economic and ethnic life in the great city of Indianapolis, which he recognized early as a true powerhouse of wealth. The cities’ diverse economy and excellent civic management made real estate values climb, and Vinnie, always with a box of donuts at this side, loved to cruise the neighborhoods, surveying the growing cluster of rental homes he’d accumulated. He made it a point to rent to Hispanics if possible, because they took decent care of his property. And being dark-skinned and only 5’4, Vinnie got on well with the chollos. He turned his back on their questionable immigration status and their occasional illegal trade, and in turn they took good care of his houses.

Being so short, Vinnie had to watch his weight, and the only thing that could keep his donut consumption at no more than a dozen a day was the daily inhalation of two packs of Lucky Strikes. Having no use for illegal drugs, he relied on large quantities of bourbon each night to soothe his jangled nerves, and by the time he reached forty, Vinnie had acquired the lungs of a lifelong coal miner, the liver of an alcoholic, and a ring of fat around his torso that the Pillsbury Doughboy would have envied.

On that fortieth birthday, Vinnie stared at his sagging naked body in the mirror, and, aided by a ferric stoicism bequeathed him by his Italian mother, he stopped smoking cold turkey, foreswore alcohol completely, and took up a daily exercise routine that would have wearied a young Marine. But Vinnie never gave a single thought to giving up his donuts.

Two years later, glowing with health and prosperity, Vinnie’s life seemed complete. To add to his pleasure, he had found a source of the most perfect yeast donuts he had ever experienced. It was a lowly storefront way out in the then-tiny burg of McCordsville, run by a surly Irishman named Tim.

Tim’s donuts sold out by 8 A M, so very morning, regardless of weather, Vinnie’s nephew Paulie arrived at 6 to pick up Vinnie’s daily dozen. Throughout the day, Vinnie sought succor from the demands of his busy mostly-legal business life by consuming those sublime pastries, and it often seemed to him, as he chewed away, that his life could not have turned out better. He had six million unencumbered dollars in banks, a beautiful blue-eyed blonde wife who was six inches taller than himself, and a lovely daughter named Carmen, who had unfortunately inherited her father’s nature. Then, on a clear January morning of his forty-third year, Vinnie’s idyllic life was shattered by a piece of news delivered by nephew Paulie.

When Paulie arrived with Vinnie’s donuts, he said that Tim, the Irish baker of Vinnie’s most treasured treat, had sold his property and was closing up in a week. Tim had been worn down by decades of rising at 1 A M to trudge through darkness and bitter cold to his bakery, and planned to spend his remaining years on a houseboat in the tropical warmth of the Florida Keys.

Vinnie sat in the office of his opulent Southside home and, after absorbing the news, lapsed into quiet tears, the first he had shed since the final belt-thrashing his father had given him, so many decades ago.

Then his grief gave way to anger. He had to act. He pulled an envelope stuffed with cash from a desk drawer and said, Go see him. Tell him I’ll give him ten grand to show you exactly how he makes his donuts.

Paulie returned an hour later, looking forlorn. Tim said, ‘Fuck off, dago.’

Vinnie’s dark Italian face turned purple with rage. But he refused to be deterred. He told Paulie to meet him at Tim’s the following morning before 1 A M.

That night, Vinnie didn’t sleep. The thought of being deprived of what, to his taste, was the world’s most perfect donut left him in a cold sweat. Sure, he could get other donuts, but they would never be equal to the level of perfection that Tim had achieved. Vinnie wondered if Tim’s secret was in the texture of the dough, or the grease, or the frying time, or the ingredients of the glaze. Whatever it was, Vinnie had to find out.

It was 9 degrees and windy the next morning. Shivering with cold and fear of loss, Vinnie crouched with his nephew around the corner from the back door to Tim’s shop. Vinnie had a bulging paper bag in one hand, his other hand gripping the 9mm Browning in his coat pocket.

They heard Tim’s footsteps crunching in the snow, and soon as Tim unlocked the back door, they shoved him inside and Paulie locked the door. Tim’s red freckled face pinched into a sneer of rage. You assholes. What the hell ya want?

Vinnie grabbed Tim by the collar and, being exactly the same height, looked into the Irishman’s blue, blood-shot eyes. I hear you’re retiring. I want the recipe for your yeast donuts and I want you to teach my nephew how to make ‘em. Vinnie raised the paper bag. It was ripping apart, overflowing with bundles of fifties

Tim’s mask of rage softened into a thoughtful look. Then he sneered and said, Go to hell, you greasy wop.

Vinnie dropped the moneybag, extracted his weapon and jammed its cold steel barrel deep into Tim’s cheek. He rested his index finger on the trigger, and waited.

They stood frozen in this confrontational posture for what seemed to Vinnie like a year. He would have killed instantly to protect his money or his property, but he was not interested in cold blooded murder. Still... what was at stake at this moment was more important to Vinnie than money or property.

The end result of this confrontation was, Vinnie got his recipe, his nephew developed into an accomplished pastry chef, and Tim, the worn-down Irish baker, retired to a much more opulent houseboat than he had previously planned.

Years later, in moments of quiet while sweating on his treadmill at his sprawling northern California home, Vinnie sometimes wondered if, on that bitter-cold January morning back in McCordsville, he would actually have pulled the trigger.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

BEND IN THE MEKONG

HER NAME WAS Malee. She wore a long white sleeveless dress which, along with the rest of her brown-skinned body, was drenched in sweat. She’d been hacking at weeds in front of her guesthouse with a rusty hoe, and when she stood up, a glistening drop of sweat trickled down her forehead and fell off the end of her nose. This struck Wells as odd, as it seemed to him that Thai people never sweat, no matter how hot it was.

Six years had passed since he’d seen her. Back then she’d had a tall American guy living with her who Wells had assumed was her husband. Happy memories of his previous visit had pulled him back to this little town on the Mekong, even after so many years.

She’d stopped hacking at the weeds as he walked up. She couldn’t have remembered him, it being so long, and Wells hadn’t called for a reservation, so he just said, Hi, I’m Fred Wells. Are you boss lady?

Yes I am the owner of this guesthouse.

Got a room?

Malee wiped sweat from her face and dropped the hoe. It clanged on the stones. Yes follow me.

In the hallway leading to a big open dining area, she turned and looked Wells over from head to toe, her eyes seeming to linger on his stubbly chin. For how many nights you want stay?

Not sure. From the moment he’d clamped eyes on her again, Wells had known it would be for more than one night, but he didn’t want to commit just yet.

Malee led him down a flight of stairs made of blackened teak and then down a short hallway. Wells caught a glance of the riverbank from there. His memories of his last visit were vivid, and the scene had definitely changed.

She pulled on the brass handle of a thick dark wood door but the door was stuck. She tried again but it wouldn’t budge. Wells could see the problem was a loose hinge. Want me to give it a try?

She smirked, grabbed the handle with two hands and yanked. Wells thought he heard one of her shoulder joints pop as the door opened. She faltered back, caught her balance and grunted a comment in Thai.

It was the same room she’d given him before, unchanged from his long stay six years before, except for the view from the window. Wells scanned the mosquito netting for holes, then said. How much?

It is slow season three hundred fifty Baht for every night.

Deal. You still cook? Wells studied her face. She had aged gracefully, as many Thai women do, but she had those faint lines under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth: misery lines, Wells called them.

Yes I still cook but no more cooking school. You wanting food I have menu on table upstairs. She held out a calloused upturned palm. One night in advance please.

After Wells peeled off the money she snatched it from him, as if afraid he’d hold on to it. Wells couldn’t wait another second to ask, How’s your husband Don doing?

Wells remembered Don clearly; a tall American with blond hair and an imperious manner, always ready to expound on Asian history and politics. Malee took a step back, squinted, raised her chin, and through gritted teeth said, with the same fierce emphasis as if declaring that she had no venereal diseases, I have no husband.

Wells smiled internally and said, Sorry to hear that. I stayed here once, six years ago and I remembered he knew a lot about the area.

He now gone. If you want food find menu on board upstairs tell girl in kitchen. I am busy see you later.

Wells watched her leave and then sat on the bed. He was amazed that she aroused in him the same feelings as so long ago, but she had a hard edge now, unlike six years ago, when she was soft-mannered, round and sweet.

Wells wanted food and rest, but first he stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the Mekong River, which was rustling fast