Calvin’s Cowboy

Chapter 2-3

Brock had to admit the menudo was excellent. He could have used a second bowl, but with Calvin paying he…

“Hey, Miguel,” Calvin called out to the over-weight, middle-aged Mexican, “can we have two more bowls?”

“Sure.” The man waddled off and soon returned with a tray. Brock eyed the new bowl hungrily. Amazingly, his appetite had returned.

“You too thin. Need to eat more,” the man said, setting a bowl in front of Calvin. “All that New York Jewish food.” Miguel shook his head and made a tsking noise with his tongue.

“I know a bistro owner in New York who would sell his grandmother to get his hands on your recipe for menudo.”

Miguel laughed. “What would I need with his grandmother?”

“Sorry, Matthew, I tried,” Calvin said, dipping his spoon into the steaming soup.

Brock was already halfway through his bowl.

Miguel ambled off, muttering something about how he already had enough old ladies in his family to support.

“So,” Calvin asked, “When can you start work on the old homestead?”

Brock swallowed his mouthful of soup. “I haven’t even priced it up yet.”

“I know, but I’ll still choose you, whatever your price.” Calvin’s look had Brock fidgeting in his seat.

Brock knew the guy was only trying to wind him up, and Brock was beginning to realize he’d never get the best of him, so it was better to ignore his teasing.

“Well, I’d have to look in my workbook, but I think I’ll be able to squeeze you in—”

“Cut the crap.” Suddenly Calvin had turned all stern and businesslike. “I know you’re struggling for work. This town is barely holding its head above water. Folks don’t have money to have repairs or renovations done. What they can do themselves, they do.”

Ain’t that the truth, Brock said to himself.

“So let’s make a deal. You give me a fair price and I’ll accept it. You do the work quickly and well, and I’ll throw in a bonus.”

Brock didn’t have a problem with that. He did good work, and, given that he didn’t have anything else on, he could start pretty much immediately.

“Deal.” He held out his hand to shake on it, just like his daddy had taught him. Something else his daddy had taught him was that you could learn a lot from how a guy shook your hand. Calvin’s was warm, firm, yet not designed to crush the bones in your hand.

The shake, however, went on for longer than Brock was expecting.

“What’s that on your wrist?” Calvin asked, using his free hand to raise the cuff of Brock’s—or rather his own—sweat shirt.

“Uh,” Brock was getting panicky about two men holding hands in public. He looked down at his wrist and saw something black, granulated, with irregular edges. The thing was about the size of a quarter. “It’s nothing.”

Calvin touched Brock’s wrist. “When I saw it earlier I thought it was a birthmark, but now—”

That was the last straw; Brock pulled his hand out of Calvin’s.

“I said it’s nothing. I probably caught it on something.”

Calvin eyed him. “Last year my company did a promotional campaign to raise awareness of skin cancer. What you have on your wrist looks just like a melanoma.”

Brock’s mouth went dry. His daddy had died from liver cancer. Okay, the two weren’t the same, but didn’t cancer run in families?

Meanwhile Calvin was busily pressing buttons on his fancy cell phone. “Here.” He thrust the phone at him. “That’s a picture of a melanoma.”

Brock stared at the image, then at his wrist. He couldn’t deny they looked similar. “It’s nothing,” he bluffed.

“Does it itch?”

Brock could hardly tell him it didn’t, as his question occurred in mid-scratch. “It’s nothing,” he repeated, hiding his wrist under the table.

“The f**k it isn’t.” Calvin’s voice was getting louder. Folks were beginning to stare at them.

“Shh. I’ll go to the doctor’s office in a few days if it doesn’t clear up.”

“You’re going now! This can’t wait. Every hour leaving melanomas untreated can be fatal.”

Way to make him feel better.

Calvin snatched back his phone. “Who’s your doctor? I’m gonna make an appointment right now.”

“No.”

“You’re right. It’d be quicker just to show up. Who are you with?”

“I, uh,” Brock stared down at the remains of his soup, his appetite absent again. “I, uh, don’t have insurance,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“When dad set up the company, he looked into health insurance, but the premiums were too high. He figured whatever we’d have to pay out for one-off things would be less than the premiums. Only he got sick and—”

Calvin let out a breath. “Okay, we’re going to the emergency room. They have to treat everyone there.”

Brock didn’t want to go; he had hated hospitals ever since his daddy had spent the last months of his life in one, but Calvin wasn’t giving him any choice.

Calvin called for the check, paid and left the diner, Brock following along behind. Dead man walking.

* * * *

The ride to the hospital seemed to take an age, but in reality Brock knew it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes. He sat quietly as Calvin drove, Brock’s truck still sitting in the bar’s parking lot. At least Brock assumed it was still there. No one in their right mind would want to steal the heap of rusting junk. Plus everyone in town knew him—and his truck—so he figured it would still be there later…If there was a later.

Thankfully Calvin stayed quiet during the ride. Brock wasn’t up for much meaningful conversation. At thirty-five he was too young to die; he still had most of his life ahead of him. And who’d look after Junior? Junior and he were a family and…

Brock hadn’t realized they’d arrived until he felt Calvin taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. It must have been a mark of how spooked he was because Brock welcomed the reassuring touch; he didn’t automatically pull away or check to see if anyone was watching them.

“It’ll be all right. The key with these things is to catch them early. And you say you don’t remember seeing this lesion before?”

Brock shook his head. He was always getting scraped up, it went with the job, but he couldn’t remember seeing this particular—whatever it was—before.

“Come on then, pardner, let’s go hustle.” Calvin gave Brock’s hand one final squeeze before letting it go.

Earlier, Brock had found Calvin’s pseudo western talk irritating—even demeaning—but now he knew the man was just trying to cheer him up.

“Thanks for this. I—”

“S’okay. I couldn’t have you going to the big contractor’s resting place in the sky halfway through your work on the house could I? This is just me looking after my investment. He gave Brock a reassuring smile to let him know he was joking.