Tom Nolan

 

Chapter I

 

     I wasn’t looking for trouble when Maurice McMasters walked into my deli that Saturday, but I soon learned trouble follows Maurice like a noon shadow on a sunny day in Arizona.  

     My name is Tom Nolan.  I’m the owner of Hanratty’s Deli, just off Market Street in San Francisco.  When I bought the deli from Melvin Hanratty twenty-five years ago, I couldn’t afford to change the signs.  Since no-one had seen the owner in the ten years I’d been stopping for a sandwich, I figured changing the name wasn’t too important.  

     When Maury’s number was called and he walked to the display case, it was the first time I’d seen him in three or four weeks.  He was a big person. I’m six-feet four-inches tall and he looked down on me. He was in his late thirties or early forties, with a full head of dark brown hair that covered his shirt collar, and a short mustache.  He was dressed in a light blue sport shirt and dark blue jeans. His voice was extremely soft, almost a whisper, but I could understand every word.

     “I’d like a kilo of pastrami,” he said, “and a half kilo of extra-sharp cheddar.”

     I wasn’t surprised he’d used the metric system for his order.  This area of San Francisco is predominantly from somewhere else.  Even twenty years ago, the signs were in pounds and kilos. As soon as I finished slicing his cheese and meat, and wrapped and priced the packages, I walked to the cash register.   He seemed to contemplate an additional request, looked around the deli, and then followed me to the end of the deli case.

     “That’ll be thirteen dollars and twelve cents,” I said.

     Maury nodded, pulled his wallet out of his left rear pocket, counted out two fives and three ones, handed them to me, and then reached into his left front pocket for the change.

     I felt the flash more than saw it and then I felt a tingling in my left arm.  It hadn’t tingled in forty-five years, since the accident.  

     I was twelve.  I was out biking with several of my friends.  We were in a race mode, challenging each other to be the first to arrive at a distant object.  I pointed out a blue car parked at the side of the road perhaps a mile ahead. I was in the lead until a car backed out of a driveway.  I hit the right rear quarter panel, flew over the car, and connected with a street sign with my left shoulder. After three operations, the doctors decided I would have to live with one working arm and one partially-working arm.  I could lift my left arm, but my left hand was useless.  

     Unconsciously, I reached with my right hand to ring up Maury’s purchase and held out my left hand for the change Maurice had pulled from his pocket.  I expected to only see the coins hit my palm. I was surprised when I felt them, too. When the cash drawer slid open, I covered the pennies with two fingers, and then dropped the dime into the drawer, something I hadn’t been able to do since I purchased the deli.

     After I thanked Maury for his business, I looked around the deli.  Old man George MacGillicudy was standing upright and was staring at the canes in his hands.  Since my first stop at the deli, he’d shuffled in with a pair of canes, his upper body bent almost parallel to the floor.  He had to turn his head sideways to see anything more than four feet above the ground. He always carried a small bag over his shoulder for his money and his purchases.  

     “Why the hell am I carrying these damned things?” he asked.  

     With no other customers in the deli, no one answered his question.

     “Hey, Hanratty,” he said when he noticed I was standing behind the deli display case.  “I don’t see my special order roast beef from Missouri in your display case.”

     For a moment, I was puzzled.  George knew my name was Tom and the company roasting his specially ordered beef had gone out of business three years before I bought the deli.  What the heck was he talking about?

     “George,” I replied.  “They quit making your roast beef twenty-eight years ago.”

     “What’re you talking about, Hanratty?  I bought two pounds here the day before yesterday.”

     “Sorry, George, you didn’t get it from me.  Pick something else you want and it’s on the house.”

     As George studied the deli display, I considered the events of the previous five minutes.  Maurice had slid his hand into his pocket to retrieve the correct change and then there had been a flash.  Less than a second later, my left arm and hand were working properly, and for the first time since I’d met him, George wasn’t hunched over.  What was going on?

     George selected a competing roast beef, complained about his preferred purchase not being available, and then paid for his treasures out of the bag around his neck.

     “Hanratty,” he said as he walked out the door, “I’ll make a few calls and see if I can find that roast beef.  I’ve been buying from those crooks for twenty years. They’ll listen to me.”

     With George out of the shop and no other customers, I had a chance to consider the situation.  Unfortunately, I was unable to come to any conclusions about what happened. I wandered around the store and checked the operation of my left arm.  I could, for the first time since buying the deli, lift a three kilo roast turkey, place it on the slicer, and operate the slide with my right hand while I stacked the slices on the waxed paper with my left.  I could lift the roll of Braunschweiger lunch meat to the slicer, steady it with my right hand, and operate the slide with my left. I could even down a can of Dr. Pepper while slicing the salami. I was living in a new dimension.  When I was finished, I had sliced three turkey roasts, two beef roasts, and a whole salami. And had used up a full box of waxed paper.  

Two hours after George walked out of the deli, he walked back in.

     “Hey, Hanratty,” he said with extreme agitation.  “Every telephone number I called was either disconnected or connected me to something called voice mail.  Only one number answered and told me the same thing you told me. What the hell is voice mail?”

     I smiled.  “George, it’s a secret.  I’d have to kill you if I told you.  Find a different roast beef. There’s one from Michigan that’s really good.”

     “Hanratty, I’ve decided I don’t like roast beef.  You got a good roast pork?”

     As soon as George walked out of the deli, I sent my wife, Karen, an email and told her about the events.  She was in Detroit, but would be returning in three days. I expected a reply within minutes. I had three days to figure out what had happened.