The Dangerous Kind & Other Stories by Robert Chazz Chute Page A

intensity.” 
    Jimmy got off the phone, his eyebrows high in surprise. “That movie star is missing and her uncle’s house burned to the ground last night.”
    “Shit again,” said Marcus. He leaned against the wall for a moment. Asia Minor was his high school sweetheart. He’d seen her, visited with her in her uncle’s house just last night. The million-dollar check was thanks to her. Where was Asia? And if she was missing, was the check in his pocket going to be any good? Would they freeze her assets? Would the cops be looking to pin something on him?
    He took a breath and made a quick decision. A house burned to the ground sounded bad, but “missing” did not necessarily equal dead. He had to get to the bank and deposit this check immediately. He could quibble over propriety later. “Boss, I quit. Jimmy, you just moved up to on-air personality. You’ve got about fifteen seconds till that song is over. The formula for success I just learned is: Be the Guy to Hate. Who knew?”
    Marcus didn’t bother saying goodbye to anyone. He’d been the morning guy for years, so he was always at work before everyone else and left as soon as his time slot was over. Today he walked out with a file box that contained his coffee mug and a bunch of stolen office supplies. Where he was headed, he didn’t need a stapler, but he needed to steal it.
    He paused at the front door, balancing the full box on one knee as he struggled with his key ring. He got the key to the station off the ring and casually tossed it over his shoulder to the lobby floor. 
    “I wanted to say something dramatic!” he yelled back to the two Sheilas at the front desk, “but frankly, nothing occurs to me! I don’t have a single cogent thought to share at the moment. See you!” He opened the door and was half way out when the two Sheilas chorused, “Bye!” 
    “Oh yeah,” Marcus said. “One detail. You two were never very friendly but I always thought it would have been amusing if you both faked Australian accents.” 
    The young and old Sheilas looked at each other and laughed. 
    “Especially if you did it while we had a threesome!”
    Their laughter died in their throats.
     
     
     
    A sad old man sat in the back of a pickup in the parking lot tipping back a bottle of gin. The radio in the truck’s cab blared his station through an open door. Marcus somehow guessed right away just looking at the old guy, he had to be Burt. It was a small town. He’d seen the old drunk around but hadn’t known his name.
    “Hey, man,” he said. “I’d love to chat, but my ex-girlfriend is missing and the world is about to descend on Poeticule Bay. I’m thinking I don’t want to be here when that happens.”
     “That movie star. She dead? You think that movie star burned up? It’s all over the radio.”
    “I’m guessing probably,” Marcus said. “God is capricious in His wrath, but I sure didn’t see that coming. Maybe she just moved to Cincinnati. You okay, dude?” 
    “I liked you better when you let Johnny Cash sing.” Burt looked at him with big, red wounded eyes. “The problem is, Mr. Marcus in the Morning, you convinced me you’re right about everything. My Genie’s out of the bottle. I agree with you. About everything. There really is no god. Nothing matters, after all.”
    “Huh. I don’t hear that often. Mostly when I argue with people, it’s my experience that they dig in their heels and are even more convinced of whatever shit they believe. Good for you.”
    “Didn’t see that coming, huh?”
    Marcus smiled, waved and moved toward his car. 
    Burt reached for the .12 gauge in the bed of the pick up.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Corrective Measures
     
    J ack pulled his car to the right, out of the way, so the woman in the green family van could drive into the Poeticule Bay Elementary parking lot. Instead, her car stood still at the mouth of the school’s gate. Another car slid up behind her, yet she did not enter. He waved her