It was cold, fucking cold outside, which was why Bolo was inside the Coventry Wal-Mart. He wore all his clothes, all at the same time. It was all he needed. Come warmer weather, he’d ditch some of the items. If it got colder again, he’d get more. It wasn’t difficult.
He’d been nursing this same cup of coffee at the counter for about two hours now. He could go outside to see if anyone had left a half a butt on the sidewalk, but it was probably going to be wet from the ice. Lighting a wet butt was a pain in the ass.
Bolo took off his knit cap and shook his hair out, then gathered it all back in his fist and tucked it back under his cap again. He knew he needed a shower – he needed one about a month ago. He knew he looked like any one of those homeless who claimed to be veterans or the slightly crazed. It was what he wanted to come across as being. Most people would do one of two things – leave him alone or try to help him. The latter were easy, and most of the time they were religious. Bolo often got a little bit of ol’ tyme religion with his meals, but he could tolerate that. He knew God protected him every moment of every day.
He sipped the coffee – it was ice cold. He drank the rest of it down with a grimace. He tucked his hand in his money-pocket. There was maybe fifty cents all told in there. Snow made it difficult to search the parking lots for change.
Empty coffee meant he had to move, so he got up. He kept his head down, his body hunched, as he snuck through one of the unmanned check-out lanes and into the store proper. Not many people around this time of night, but Bolo could duck and weave among the merchandise, playing games to avoid the plainclothesmen.
He headed to the men’s department. Surprisingly enough, there was a bald man shopping. Over his arm was a whole bunch of shirts in many different dark colors. The man was pawing through the racks, a slightly angry look on his face. He wore a black biker jacket, black pants, and a hot pink shirt.
Hot pink?
Bolo laughed in spite of himself. The bald man looked up at him, his eyes a bright sapphire blue. “What’re you looking at?”
“Nice shirt.”
The bald man looked down at his shirt, then up, and in the next second the bald man was in Bolo’s face, grabbing a hold of the top layer of Bolo’s clothes, and the man gaze bored into Bolo. “Not. Funny.”
“Who got it for you, your boyf—”
Bolo was sent flying through the racks, into the card section, knocking over the very fancy Hallmark card set-up, through that and half-way into the second set of cards. Wrapping paper, cards, tissue paper, present bags, were scattered all over him. Luckily, the bulk of his clothes cushioned any sort of injury. However, the man was still coming for him.
Struggling to get up through the cards, he shoved himself back against the second rack, which teetered dangerously backwards. He righted himself, but the man advanced slowly, menacingly. He’s giving me a way to get out of this. He doesn’t really want to hurt me. He slipped on the cards and fell. The bald man paused, waiting for him to get up. A couple of plainclothesmen showed up behind him. “Excuse me, sir?”
The bald man turned, and Bolo swore he heard the man hiss. Both of the plainclothesmen fell over themselves as they tried to run away. Bolo stared at them, and finally got to his feet. The man slowly turned to face him. Bolo saw red eyes, and something that might have looked like fangs sticking out over his bottom lip.
“Shit, oh, shit…” He bolted around the racks, and headed down the other aisle of cards. He kept on going, heading to the tiny book section near the front of the store. He rummaged through the books before finding what he wanted. The bald man kept coming at him. With both hands, like a shield, Bolo held up a book.
Life Application Study Bible, New Living Translation.
The bald man stopped, and blinked. “Are you kidding me?”
Bolo shook it at him determinedly, like a shaman would shake a rattle at an evil spirit.
The bald man in the hot pink t-shirt started to laugh. “Forget it.” Then he walked away, back to the men’s area. He picked up the clothes that he had dropped on the floor. He straightened them out over his arm, and headed to the check-out. Bolo watched, the Bible still in his hands, and slowly crept out to follow him. The man went to the check-out, paid for his things. He took one of the dark t-shirts that the lady scanned through, shrugged out of his coat and peeled off that pink t-shirt. Bolo peered around a corner at the man –he was ruggedly built, with a huge scorpion on his chest and snake tattoos down his arms. Then he yanked off the tags, while the girl at the register smiled at him.
“He made my entire shirt wardrobe. Pink. On Valentine’s Day. I’ll kill him when I find him.”
She smiled again, scanning shirts though. She gave him his price, he paid with a credit card. Bolo kept watching, walking around the store. Some plainclothesmen followed him also. “Sir?” They stopped him at the door.
He stared at them. “You don’t really want to stop me.”
The three plainclothesmen peeled away, letting him by. Didn’t they know? Didn’t they see? Bolo ran after the man as he headed outside. Two guys caught him.
“What’s this?” One tore the Bible out of his hand.
“I need that!”
The man turned around and headed back their way. He took out a $20 bill and handed it to Bolo. “If it’ll bring you comfort, buy it.”
Bolo stared at the money, then took it, gingerly, from the man’s hand. He looked up at the man, again, those bright blue eyes staring intently at him. Something ate at the back of his mind, something that wanted him to do whatever the man said. He shoved it away, hard. He grabbed the Bible and held it against his chest, along with the money.
“It won’t protect you,” said the man, leaning close, and he spoke softly, only so Bolo would hear, “Not from me.”
Bolo jerked back, away from him, the man leaned back and looked at the plainclothesmen in turn. “He’s crazy, huh?”
“Yeah,” said one of them. “Have a good night, sir.”
Bolo stayed in the store, huddled in the corner where the books were, until they had to physically remove him before 7 a.m. the next morning.