Always a Kicker Read online

  Always A Kicker

  A horrific accident happens when Zander is fifteen years old. It shapes the next twenty years of his life. His wanderlust and passion for uncommitted relationships seems to be a direct result of his girlfriend’s death. But something was nagging at his core and it was telling him that past events were not what they appeared.

  Zander’s seemingly pointless life leads him from a small town in Iowa to Omaha, Nebraska and finally to Frisco, Colorado. The people he meets may finally give him some meaning to an unfulfilled life. Then the unthinkable, a private investigator tells him Sara Jane may be alive.

  But he always knew that.

  Always A Kicker is a story of dealing with events of the past and learning to make your own luck by taking life head on even when dealt a rotten hand.

  Always A Kicker

  By Jeff Zwagerman

  ALWAYS A KICKER, Copyright 2015, by JEFF ZWAGERMAN.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews.

  For information, address Oak Tree Press, 1820 W. Lacey Boulevard, Suite 220, Hanford, CA 93230.

  Oak Tree Press books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional purposes. Contact Publisher for quantity discounts.

  First Edition, April 2015

  ISBN 978-1-61009-183-1

  LCCN 2015931996

  I dedicate this book to my wife, Jan.

  Without her understanding and patience,

  Always a Kicker would still be words stuck in my head.

  Prologue

  “De molen gaat niet om met wind die voorbij is”

  The windmill doesn’t care for the wind that’s gone past

  ―Dutch Proverb

  Hospers, Iowa-Tuesday June 15, 1965

  The boy sat in the park and looked over at the “greasy spoon”. He was fifteen and still a boy in so many ways. However, he was completely consumed by the young girl who waited tables in the café and that made him sexually older than his fifteen years.

  He was waiting for her to get off work. Stalking her really. He used to wait for her on a stool by the counter but the owner told him that his presence was hurting his business. So he found a place in the town square park. Of course, there was no “town square” at all. It was a Memorial Park in the middle of the block on the Northeast side of Main Street.

  A local artist had developed a process of making statues commemorating World War I with some secret mixture of locally obtained resources. No one knew how he did it. The white statues looked like sandstone but wore like granite. They had stood since the end of the First World War and looked as good as the day they were dedicated. At least that’s what the boy had heard people say. He thought the word “dedicated” was a misnomer. He liked to think they were erected. Not unlike himself when thinking of the girl.

  Sometime after the artist finished the project, he blew his head completely off with a shotgun. Thus insuring that his secret mixture remained a secret.

  The boy didn’t think much about it. He sat in the band shell with his back against the round wall. Far enough away not to be noticed but close enough to keep the café in visual range insuring a view without appearing too desperate.

  The average fifteen year-old thinks about sex every seventeen seconds. The boy thought that it might be closer to every ten seconds. The girl had that affect on the boy. She was the same age but only in years. She could bring him to his knees with the twinkle in her eyes. There was something in those green eyes that saw everything and wanted to try everything. At least that’s what the boy hoped.

  The girl was pushing five foot six and slender. She had short curly blonde hair, big eyes, a button nose, and a huge smile that she most always wore. She had all the right curves and her breasts were bigger than they should have been for a fifteen year-old girl. Stacked was what the guys said. Her breasts drove the boy quite crazy. She seemed to open a button or two on her shirt whenever the boy was around.

  “Prick teaser” some of the other guys called her. The boy didn’t listen. She was a stone fox and he was only thinking with his small head and that was every ten seconds.

  The owner came out the front door and got into his brown 1949 Dodge Meadowbrook. The boy loved cars and knew every make and model and almost every year. He made it a goal to know the most important town people’s cars and anyone who owned a muscle car of course.

  It was very important to know when the café owner’s car left for the evening. That was his cue to enter the café without getting himself or the girl in trouble.

  The girl was Sara Jane De Graff. The boy always thought Sara Jane to be an odd name. Either Sara or Jane would have been enough but her parents felt the need to say both names. So everyone called her Sara Jane. He thought of the old Dean Martin show when he introduced the busty Ann Margret: “Here is the actress with two first names. One for each of ‘em.” Was it ten seconds already?

  The boy crossed the street and went into the café. The door hadn’t even closed when he noticed the stink of natural gas. Sara Jane was somewhere in the back. He called her name and she came out quickly and out of breath. She told him he shouldn’t have come in because the owner might be coming back at any time. He tried to tell her something was wrong, that there was an awful smell of gas. She knew, she wasn’t stupid and someone was downstairs trying to fix it.

  Sara Jane told him to leave because she had to go right home after she locked up and something about her parents grounding her. The boy barely heard a single word. He was feeling mighty strange. Something was wrong. Sara Jane didn’t treat him like that, not ever.

  He wandered back to his usual spot and decided to wait. Lately he was having some feelings that maybe she was hooking up with someone else. He couldn’t actually put his finger on when that thought crept into his mind but there had been little signs. The boy thought that maybe it could be someone at her school. She went to a private school and he attended the public, both in different towns. Stolen kisses had become more like pecks, not the open mouth passionate embraces he had grown accustomed to. It had been some time since he had gone home to bed with “blue balls”.

  Maybe she was meeting someone tonight. If so, he would be staying until he found out. These thoughts made him agitated. He didn’t like being distrustful. It made him feel cheap. But the idea of spying on the girl made him excited as well. Intrigue had always been part of the boy’s dream world, but it was hard to live out those dreams in a small town when you were only fifteen.

  The boy glanced over at the café and saw Sara Jane pulling the blinds and watching them fall. Time to lock up. The boy got up and decided to go through the alley across the street that divided the block in two. From there he could go around the back and watch Sara Jane pull the back door closed. The owner didn’t trust anyone with a key.

  The boy moved quickly. He didn’t want to miss Sara Jane and he was almost to the street when things changed. Slow motion, that’s what it was. Everything had gone into slow motion. At that very moment, life as he knew it, changed forever.

  When he thought back on it, only two things stayed in his memory. The first was a blinding flash of light followed by a huge fireball and an explosion that made everything go silent. The second was a black 1965 Mustang fishtailing out of the alley with two people in the front. Of course it could have been a 1964 and a half since Ford didn’t introduce that model until April of that year and the two model years were identical.

  At least that’s what the boy was thinking when a large chunk of concrete block hit him in the forehead and things went all white.

  1

 
Frisco, Colorado-Saturday August 17, 1985

  Sander Van Zee was almost finished with his shift at the Branchwater Saloon on West Main Street where he bartended days. He usually worked as long as possible and then went to his rented cabin south of town and changed into his black Nehru jacket and bartended at The Bridge up in Breckenridge. He didn’t report there until five so he generally had time to relax just a little before he worked through until eleven each night except for Mondays. Monday was his day off.

  He liked working at the saloon. The outside looked like it was right out of GUNSMOKE. The owners tried to make the interior look that way too. It was a real bar. Not a fancy tourist spot like so many up and down highway nine. He served mostly beer and some mixed drinks, nothing girlie, and nothing having more then one booze in it.

  The Bridge, on the other hand, was a restaurant. Tourists had drinks before dinner, wine with dinner, and expensive after dinner drinks before they paid their bill. It wasn’t a local place but the food was superb and the tourists were usually happy so they tipped well.

  Everyone knew him as Zander. He picked up the name in high school. Most kids had a nickname back then and sometimes it was a derivative of a last name. He had been called many things but it was Zander that stuck. Most people didn’t know his full name and that was just fine with him.

  He was waiting for his replacement to arrive. The owners of the Branchwater were Albert and Jo Williams. Bert was a realtor and sold insurance from a small storefront down the street so it was Jo who became Zander’s boss by default. They liked each other. Zander though she might be good in the sack. Bert always seemed pretty happy. Maybe if she hadn’t been turning fifty the following week and Zander a young thirty-five, he might have been tempted. As it turned out, they were just happy with the teasing and sexual tension. It insured that they would remain friends without carting along extra baggage that comes when you screw up friendships with sex. Zander tried hard not to have sex with friends. That way, no one really got hurt when things went south, and they always did.

  Jo had walked over behind him and poked him hard in the ribs. Zander jumped and whipped around.

  Laughing, Jo took a step back and said, “Where were you just now?”

  “Just wondering how you keep those boobs looking so perky,” Zander replied staring at her chest.

  “My eyes are up here,” she said as she pointed to her face, “These are my breasts.”

  “Then maybe you should tell them to stop staring me in the eyes,” he said.

  “Maybe you should stop fixating on my chest,” Jo said, trying to hide a smile.

  “ I know,” Zander replied, “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately and I’ve come up with a number ideas to explain the perkiness, but the one I keep coming back to is duct tape.”

  Pretending to be hurt Jo said, “ Oh that is so nasty. Why do you say things like that?”

  “ Can’t help myself. You seem to walk right into it,” he said.

  “Maybe I’ll just fire you,” she said trying to sound serious.

  “Again? How many times is that? I think it was twice this week alone.”

  “Changed my mind,” Jo said. She shook her head and added, “You are too good a worker and you make it fun around here.”

  “Ditto,” was all Zander could say.

  Quickly changing the subject she added, “There is a guy at the end of the bar with your card, says he wants to talk to you.” Then she punched him in the arm.

  “Thanks, perky.”

  She rolled her eyes and said, “ I’m going over to Bert’s office. Don’t leave until the second shift gets here, Okay?”

  “Got your motor running didn’t I? Planning on a little scoring in the afternoon? But let’s not get a hickey or you’ll look like the skank you really are.”

  She only laughed, shook her head and was out the swinging doors.

  “Later,” she said.

  Apparently she had a nice ass too because Zander was staring at it as she walked out.

  Finally after a few moments of wishful thinking, he looked over at the end of the bar. Zander had business cards made up a few years back. As a kid, he had watched every episode of Have Gun Will Travel. He especially liked the card the character Paladin handed out so he took the idea and added his own touches. The card simply said, “Have Resources, Will Travel” and instead of the over imposed knight chess piece embossed on the card, Zander’s had a drawing of the Mask of Tragedy. In small print at the bottom of the card it said, “Call Zander At:” which was the number of an answering service he used. The answering service would call him at the number he gave them. In this case, he had used the bar since he had no phone and he planned to be around for a while. The answering service would leave a message and Zander would return the call. He did many things for people but he really enjoyed finding kids and reuniting them with their parents. It was especially rewarding to him when he could free someone from a pedophile. He was happiest when his collaboration freed these young people and brought them back to those who loved them. He sometime wondered why this particular pursuit always seemed to be pulling at him.

  But he was open to almost everything that would pay him. He did draw the line at landscaping. He had tried that once and thought it was a huge waste of time and mental ability. Lately he had done some finding of runaway spouses. It usually paid well but always ended badly for someone.

  That’s why this was disturbing. No one ever came to the bar asking for him unless they made prior arrangements. Zander didn’t know this guy. His suit and tie looked like trouble.

  Zander had spent some time in Omaha bartending at a little place west of I-680 called the Glass Onion. He had passed out some of his cards while he was there. When he decided to move on, Jasper, the owner agreed to give out his card to those who, in his opinion, needed it. Jasper was a classic. He was mean and nasty on the outside but a puddle of piss on the inside. Zander stole one of his lines and used it often in the bar business.

  If one of the customers got a little too loud or obnoxious, Zander would say, “You better go outside and practice falling down a few times.”

  When the customer would ask why, and they always asked why, he just said, “Because I’m going to knock you on your ass.”

  Jasper would never have done it because he was older and maybe a bit out of shape. Besides, everyone knew he was joking. Zander, on the other hand, was strong and in fine shape. No one really knew if he was joking or serious. That’s what he liked and that was usually the end of it.

  He did have one stroke of luck while working at the Glass Onion. He had been driving a white 1958 Ford Fairlane 500 Skyliner. It was the one with the hardtop convertible and the top that went into the trunk. It had the tailfins and a 352 cubic inch engine with a three speed automatic. Zander liked shifting a four-speed better but this is what was available at the time. The car was cherry. He had bought it when he was eighteen and had a motor head buddy fix it up. It was a sweet ride and a lot of guys told him they had a ’58 just like it when they were young. One day an old guy came in and asked who owned the Fairlane. Zander told him it was his and the guy said he wanted to buy it.

  “It isn’t really for sale,” Zander told him.

  “I collect cars,” the old guy said, “ and I’ve never seen one in this good of shape. I’ve got to have it.”

  “Well I would need some other wheels and quite a bit of money,” Zander said.

  “What kind of car are you looking for?”

  Zander had always liked the 1956 Ford T-Bird. It had a speedometer that registered 150 miles an hour and he liked the little porthole window on the hardtop. He wondered whether a 292 cubic inch engine could even go 150 but it was very cool.

  “1956 Ford T-Bird,” was all Zander said to the old guy.

  The old guy’s eyes lit up.

  “I’ve got one. Just got it. The engine is in great shape and the body is good. It has a few dings here and there. The top needs some work. Something with the electric relay
s or limit switches. I haven’t had time to have it worked on,” the old guy said.

  “I don’t know, how much will that cost?” Zander asked.

  “I don’t know but I’ll give you the car as is and ten grand to boot,” he replied.

  The old guy had Zander’s attention. Jasper said he knew the guy and he was good as gold and he was some big shot investor in Omaha. Owned a bunch of things including some furniture businesses. Zander wasn’t sure what that meant but everyone at the bar seemed to be impressed.

  When all the negotiations settled, Zander had given up his Fairlane in exchange for the Golden Glow 1956 Yellow T-Bird and twelve thousand dollars cash. That was more money than he ever had seen at one time. He even gave his card to the old guy just in case. In case of what, he really didn’t know, but it had seemed like a good idea. Nothing much else ever came his way from passing out his card at the Onion.

  Leaving the Glass Onion was harder than leaving Hospers for Zander. The regulars and especially Jasper had become close friends. Before he left, Jasper took him aside and gave him five hundred bucks for gas money. Zander didn’t know what to say. So Jasper just gave him a bit of advice.

  “Always forgive your enemy but never forget the asshole’s name.”

  It was excellent advice and Zander never forgot it. He didn’t really know why exactly, but the levity of it seemed to help get him through an emotional moment with Jasper and the boys.

  When he left Omaha, he had decided to head to Denver. It was just a day’s drive in his yellow T-Bird. He had stopped off for a late lunch in Paxton at Ole ’s Big Game Bar and struck up a relationship with the bartender there. He was a skinny guy but seemed friendly enough. They had shared war stories and before he knew it, the afternoon had slipped by. He had more beers than he usually drank and shared his card with a number of patrons all during the afternoon. He even convinced the bartender to take a stack and pass them out if he felt someone needed his services.