Woman in the Magazine

I’m invited to a wedding.  Former love.  Not recently, although that might be fun in a perverse way.  For me, when it’s over, it’s over.  No looking back.

The day before the event, I find myself with a quiet moment, snapping through the pages of a magazine at a downtown coffee house.  Sipping, dreaming.  I catch a flash of color and I stop and flip back several pages.  A woman.  Not a real woman, but an artist’s rendition.  Beautiful.  I’m spellbound. I’m a dreamer by nature and this is worth a long dream.  What makes me notice the curve of her body, the position of the hands, the far away look?  Is she a dreamer, too?  A fellow romantic?

What’s sexy about the woman in the magazine? She’s not real.  An irresistible allure captures me.  She’s not naked.  Nothing so blatant.  I’m romantic, not blurry-eyed.  Some have whispered, “foolishly romantic,” behind my back.  I hear them.  Noted.

The wedding is a glorious success.  The weather turns a tad cold for late May, but no rain.  After the ceremony, guests retreat from the garden into the spacious, high-ceilinged ballroom.  Long tables are laden with noshes.  Round tables, white linen covered, are spaced around the room.   I scan the crowd and see no one I know.  Along the way, I chat with a few guests.  Shake a few hands.  Compliment the bride and groom.  The bride looks at me a little wistfully, or at least I think so.  She adores roses.  I sent her a dozen yesterday.  I like motiveless gestures.  Very freeing.

Across the huge dance floor, close to the cream colored wall and apart from the crowd, I catch a glimpse.  The woman I spy is something like that magazine drawing.  When she cocks her head and brushes back a lock of hair, I notice her slender neck.   A body with gracefully soft curves.

Her hair is on the short side, much like the drawing.  Just long enough to move a bit when she speaks.  She’s chatting with another woman.  The red lipstick on full lips carves an image on my tender imagination.   There’s a rather suave man standing nearby.  Well cut gray suit.  Regimental striped tie.  Expensive black wingtips, well polished.  He’s good looking, but with a stern finish.  Power, if I had to guess, which I do.  The power of the boardroom.  The twin faces of Janus, aphrodisiacs, power and confidence. Half a head taller then I am, yet about the same as my 160, he exudes both.  But, the curl to his lips is somehow off-putting.  Chiseled features, like a male model, but not quite to that standard.  He yawns and doesn’t cover his mouth.  Bored and gauche.  Now he looks around the room.  Our eyes meet briefly in passing.

So much for her date.  What’s the first thing I notice about a woman?  Her age.  That’s not a judgment and not exact.  This woman I’d place about mid-thirties.  Her escort is maybe twenty years older.

Next?  Her eyes.  Comes as a shock, n’est pas?  Well, ok, I stand corrected.  I can’t see her eyes from here, or not the color.  But, I can tell they’re lively.  And, when it’s a woman whose breasts arrive a couple of minutes before the rest of her, the eyes are overlooked and everyone in the room, including the marble statues gives a stare.  But, really, how often do you see that?  Anyway, women pay much more attention to their breasts, and everyone else’s breasts, than men do.  Fact.  Men are simple.

Women seem obsessed with their bodies.   Much more than men.  I mean it.  They know every vein, every bulge, everything that in their eyes shames them with imperfections.  This woman doesn’t seem to share that handicap.  She’s relaxed, comfortable.

Men are also obsessed, but not in the same way.  I find myself noticing bulging waists, sunken chests, skinny necks, anything that could give me a clear advantage in the hunt.  But, I’m the first to admit, I could never guess what’s on a woman’s mind, or how she might judge a man.  We’ve all seen gorgeous women with lesser partners.  My guess is, attraction is seldom as physical for a woman as it is for a man.

The look that gets to me is the promise of surrender, but easy does it.  Romance.  Don’t be in a hurry.  Tease me, please me.  The woman in the drawing is like that.  Shows nothing.  Promises everything.

From across the room, the woman glances my way.  Was I staring too much?  Bad habit.  A stare is ok.  A lengthy stare screams perv.  I look down at my shoes, then refocus on another part of the room.  Nice party.  Da. Da. Da.  Count of three and I steal another glance.  I quickly scan another direction, then down at the empty ice cubes in my glass. They tinkle just a bit when I swirl them.

Time for another bit of Scotland.  The ballroom bar overflows with the thirsty minions.  No matter.  Drink or no drink is all the same.  Someone sidles up beside me.  I barely notice.  I’ve tried the 10 year old unpronounceable.  The Scots and the Celts use too many freaking consonants. Don’t even mention the Welsh.  It was watery to begin with.  The ice made it worse.

“What are you sipping?” the voice beside me purrs.  She.

‘Haven’t the faintest.  Single malt, or so they tell me.” 

“I’m drinking a Gimlet.  Ever had one?”  Her voice is musical.

“No….don’t believe I ever had…have…no.”

“Gin.  Sweetened lime juice.  Sugar. Ice.  Simple.”  She smiles and the stars come out of the dark night.  “My mother’s favorite.”  She leans forward when the bar keep asks for her order.  The bosom of her dress falls ever so slightly forward.  I can’t quite see her nipples, but god knows I try.  She looks toward me.  “Aren’t you going to have anything?”  As if she doesn’t know I was looking.

“Another of these,” I say and let it go at that.

“Are you a friend of the bride or groom?” she asks.  She’s casually slipped her arm through mine and we’ve moved away from the crowd at the bar, back toward a corner.  The good-looking, tall guy is nowhere to be seen.  She lets her arm drop and glances around the room, then back at me.

“Groom,” I say.  “He’s in the same office and married the woman I dated for three years.”

She laughs.  “Really?”

“No, it was closer to two.”  She laughs again.

“Looks like we have something in common.”  She winks.  “My fiancé ran off with his ski instructor.”

“Was she cute?”

“He,” she deadpanned.  “Unlucky all ‘round.”

“Well, you’re in luck this time.”  I smile.  She takes a sip of her Gimlet and I focus on the slim fingers and bright red nails lightly holding the stem of the glass.

“Want to dance?” she murmurs, putting her drink politely on the small, white-linen covered table and reaching for my hand.”

The band, which happily plays everything from hip-hop, to fifties rock, to Mozart’s Klein Nacht Musik, is currently on a waltz theme. 

We waltz.  We chat.  The music changes to a very slow version of ‘ Save the Last Dance for Me,’ and her cheek almost touches mine.   I can feel the warmth.

The music stops.  “Well,’ she says finally, “This has been nice.”

From behind me I feel a tap on my shoulder.  I turn.  It’s the tall guy with the chiseled chin.

“Oh, hi, darling,” she says. “Time to go already?”

He smiles and nods.

“It was really good to meet you,” she says and shakes my hand, lightly.  Her fingers linger just a touch longer than they should.   He doesn’t seem to notice.

I watch them leave.  Just before she walks through the double doors, she pauses and doesn’t look back, but places her gently folded napkin on the round, waist high table.

The band is playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”  The Platters did it better.  There’s ice in my glass, but the liquor’s only a memory.

I wait a decent amount of time, to see if by some miracle she’s headed back into the ballroom.  Then, I wander toward the double doors and casually pick up the napkin and put it in my suit pocket without looking.

Tease me, please me.

No wonder she reminded me of the woman in the magazine. Shows nothing.  Promises everything.

Jock Überreacher - Cracking the Case

I arrived in the small, dusty town of Bootyville wearing only my white Jockey shorts.  I travel light.  It’s better and easier that way.  Comfortable too.  I like to remain anonymous and what kind of description can anyone give about a man wearing only Jockey shorts besides “He was only wearing Jockey shorts?”

No particular reason I stopped in Bootyville, but I was about to find out just what kind of nasty, nefarious, really, really bad burg it was.  The bus door slid open with the whoosh of air you’d expect from a bus door.  The driver didn’t give me a glance, but I noticed his eyes blink and his toe tap on the accelerator pedal located right below his foot, right next to the brake pedal, which he didn’t tap. That told me everything I needed to know.

I got off the bus at the school bus stop right on the edge of a dusty cornfield and across the street from a dusty school.  School was out.  I could tell school was out because nobody was in the school. As a shower attendant in the YMCA, I learned to be observant and quick. A couple of teachers hung around outside the building which was a school, chewing toothpicks and waiting for their boyfriends or husbands to come back from the mill and pick them up.  The two I saw could have been thirty, or thirty-one…maybe thirty-two, or thirty-three.  Although I was some 300 yards away, I could see their beady eyes because their eyes were open, but not wide.

I knew whomever was coming to pick them up….one of them may have been thirty-four…would be coming from the mill. I’d seen a sign coming into town.  “We love our Mill.  You’re darn tootin!’  The”darn” was in red and crisscrossed with two black knitting needles.  Underneath, in smaller black letters was printed, “Trespassers will be shot.”

The cop car, its long antenna making little thin circles in a sky strewn with dusty clouds, like a mosquito searching for cow in heat, stopped beside me.  The deputy had a three-day growth of beard and a year’s worth of tartar on her teeth.  A long, thin coffee stain ran down the front of her greasy shirt.

“We don’t like your kind in Bootyville,” she snarled, staring down at my freshly painted, cheery red toenails.  “Best you chase down another bus and high tail it.”

It’s an old trick I learned while serving as a Tennessee Oyster Investigator.  A man paints his toes a bright red and nobody notices his face.

I guess I should introduce myself.  The name’s Jock.  Jock Überreacher.  I’m a professional drifter and problem solver, if you catch my drift.  I’ve lived all over the country, but only a day or two at a time.  I was born that way.  My pappy was a very strict drifter and he taught me all he knew about drifting.  My mother didn’t seem to mind the drifting life, but then she was seldom there, being a First Sergeant in the Army and an expert with a pistol, knife and extended, electronic mouth organ.  Although I didn’t see much of her in my early years, she taught me a lot about unnamed combat in her letters.  It was what you might call urban jungle survival by correspondence.  She left me with one very important lesson.  There’s a time to fight, using very special unnamed combat techniques only a mother can teach, and a time to act innocent and play your mouth organ.  Nowadays, I never went anywhere without my mouth organ strapped to my leg, just above my ankle.  You just never know.

The deputy hadn’t gone away.  She just sat there, the car idling, while she stared at my toenails and snickered while I answered her.  “What if I decide I like Bootyville, and want to make it my semi-permanent home?”

“What if I decide to pull out my pistola and make them cute little tootsies dance?” she asked.  It could have been rhetorical, but I couldn’t take the chance.

It looked to me like she was reaching for her gun.  I took a step forward and before she could even say Texas Two Step, or Alabama Circumstantial Mambo, I’d reached inside the cop car and disarmed her.  They don’t call me Überreacher for nothing.

Distracting the subject and grabbing the weapon from inside a car with the window down was a practiced skill I’d acquired during my undercover time as a street-side window washer in Detroit.  Obviously this deputy had never been to the big, mean streets of a city where crime never sleeps.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” I purred, showing her the barrel end of a 357 Super Sport Cranium Adjuster.

She spit out a thin stream of tebacci juice, but missed me by a mile.  “Betsey Bullhockey don’t give out her name to strangers.”  Then she smiled, like that was going to make me go all warm and cuddly inside.  “You’d best give me back the gun,” she said.  “It ain’t loaded, anyhoo.”

I should have known that.  The weight was different, lighter.  A shell weighs….wait a sec.  You have to add in the weight of the grains of the powder.  Then you have to consider the bullet itself.  Anyway, it was lighter.

“Since Sheriff Willie T Tyler took over, the town ain’t been the same.  He don’t abide no fuss or mess and that includes bullets for our guns.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Restaurants can’t use stoves to cook nothing and no lattes neither.  Makes too much of a mess.  Sheriff Willie T keeps a clean town.  Especially when it comes to food.  He’s all for Raw and Order.”

I handed the weapon back and Betsey gave me a ride into town.  “I spec you can use something to eat.  The Camptown Race Treat’s right over there.  Best peanut butter this side of ….”  The words drifted away as Betsey spied a tall, lanky man come out of Camptown, look around nervously, shiver, wink, tap the top of his head twice, and amble down the street.

“Something’s fishy around here,” she mumbled.  “I’ve seen that same man come out of the restaurant before.”

“Maybe he lives around here.”

“Maybe so, but the last time he walked in the other direction.  That just don’t make sense.”

“Going for a haircut?”  I could see the barber pole twisting in its red, white, and blue way.

“Nobody goes for a haircut around here.”

“Why not?”

“Sheriff Willie T don’t like it.  Hair all over the floor.  He’s talked the town council into paying the barbers not to cut hair.  Pays ‘em a thousand dollars a week and that don’t include tips.”

“Wow, not exactly razor thin profits.”

“But, if that tall, lanky stranger walked that way, he must’ve had a reason.”

I went through a few more possibilities with Betsey.   Public toilet?  Dishwasher repair shop?  Gas station?  Pet shop?

She had an answer for everything.  No public toilets without a prescription.  Dishwashers repair not open on days of the week.  Gas station by invitation only.  And, he didn’t look like one of the Pet Shop Boys.

“There’s only one thing it could be,” I surmised.  “Egg counterfeiting.”

Betsey looked confused.  “I’ve heard of all sorts of things.   Fixing chicken races.  Eye socket enlargement schemes.  Fresh butter sold as filler dirt.  But egg counterfeiting?”  She had a look of disgust on her face and let me know she was willing to do whatever it took to get to the bottom of this.  Shave her face. Comb her legs.  Brush her teeth.  Give up chewing tobacco until after breakfast.

We waited until nightfall.  I’d asked more questions about egg operations.  “Well, she said, “There’s only one place any kind of egg counterfeiting could happen and that’s at the old Whiffer place near the county line.”

“You’re talking about That County?”

“I’m sure as hell not talking about This County.”  I was warming to her cheery sense of humor.  I chuckled.  Then I belly laughed.  That’s not just an expression.  My navel gapped and made a whistling sound.

Before we headed out to the old Whiffer place, I had Betsey make a stop at the Dis-arm Surplus and Pituitary Gland store.  If this was going to mean night work, I’d better be dressed for it.  I picked up a pair of jungle camouflaged briefs, a genuine flashlight, and a sap, which must have weighed a bunch because my underwear sagged when I stuck it in back.

It was getting dark by the time I got changed and got back to the cop car.  Betsey evidently approved, but she had something to add.  “Just stand there a sec.”  She pulled out a can of black spray paint and sprayed over my red toes.  I started to object, but she was right.  Nobody would recognize me now.

The old Whiffer place looked pretty much as you would expect.  It was old, with an old barn, where they used to keep old cows.  You could still sit in the car and catch a whiff.  Hence the name.

We waited a long time.  It was dark, then it was light, then dark again.  Let’s see.  We started on Monday.  That meant tomorrow was Wednesday and yesterday was Tuesday.  That would make day after tomorrow Thursday.  Who knows what would come next?  Could be Monday started again.  When you’re on a dangerous stakeout, you can’t worry about trivia.

Evidently, sitting in a dark car, at night, outside town, brought back the same memories for Betsey it did for me.  “Kiss me, you formerly red-toed devil,” she whispered.  And with a slight belch, she puckered up and slid my way.  But, before my lips could find hers, the bright sweep of a truck’s headlights brought us to our gnarly senses.

“I knew it,” she said under her tobacco breath.  “The tall, lanky guy was the driver of that truck and he’s headed to the Whiffer place.  He was already at the Whiffer place but I didn’t correct her.  “I’d be willing to bet,” she continued, “that truck is loaded with counterfeit cackleberries.”

“Well, the yolks on them,” I said, stepping out of the cop car.

“Where are you going?” she wheezed.

“This nefarious racket is over.  Right now.  Right here.  And, I’m just the man to finish it.”

I could tell she loved the masculine growl in my voice.  Most women do.  Until they see the white underpants and red toes.  That’s why I usually stick to phone sex, but, Betsey was different and I don’t mean just in grooming and personal hygiene.   She had the savoir-faire of a woman who knew what she wanted and what she wanted right now was justice for all the chickens and farmers who worked tirelessly to produce the finest eggs in the world. She was with me.  There was no way she was going to let their pride, sacrifice, and occupational stench be diminished by cheap, plastic eggs, filled with sugary chocolate, and sold as the real McCoy.

Four men, dressed in black, stepped out of the truck.  Then another man stepped out.  That was five.  I recounted just to make sure.  Yep.  One, two, three….”Jock, look out!” Betsey called, “There are four men stepping out of that truck!”

She’d messed up my count, but that didn’t stop me.  I recounted.  She was not correct.  There were five of those vicious, egg-counterfeiting hombres. Unless I’d miscounted.

I pulled the sap out of my underpants and tugged the waistband back up to my waist.  Then I tugged the Jockeys higher to give my legs more freedom.  With stealth, I crept up to the old Whiffer place.  I’d learned creeping when I got my Salamander Merit Badge.

Inside I could hear voices.  It sounded like a barbershop quartet, but the harmony didn’t fool me.  These harmonious punks were up to no good.

There were a dozen ways I could approach this operation.  I could use stealth to sap them one at a time and hope the others didn’t notice.  I could scream real loud and run like hell.  I could scream real loud and get Betsey to run like hell.

Instead, I decided on something they’d never expect.  I pulled out my mouth organ, which had been strapped to my leg, on the side, below the knee, but above the ankle, and played my version of Moon River as I sauntered casually into the barn.  They barely noticed and kept on singing and stacking crates of counterfeit eggs.  At least I thought they hadn’t noticed until I felt a barrel of cold steel being jammed down the back of my jungle camouflaged Jockeys.

“Blow one more note, son and I’ll blow your nosey ass away,” a deep voice growled.  The fifth man!  It was Betsey’s fault.  She’d messed me up while I was counting.  But, there was no time for recriminations now, not while my ass was in a jam.

“You’re Wilbur Crankside,” I said confidently.  “But, you’re known hereabouts as Eggshell Whitey.”  There was a gasp.  They were no doubt asking themselves the same question I was asking myself.  How could I possibly know that?

Now I remembered.  I’d seen a sign outside the school that said, “Today is Wilbur Crankside Day, or as we all know him….Eggshell Whitey!”

It was starting to all make sense.  What better place to store crates and crates of counterfeit eggs than the local schoolhouse?  The old Whiffer place was only the distribution point.  God only knew where all these choco-malted-eggs would wind up.  Chances are the streets of the big cities of America would be strewn with them.  Kids everywhere would end up as sugar-addicted derelicts.  

Crankside had started with one school and built a business based on corruption.  No wonder the whole town could be paid not to barber and cook and clean and shave and brush their teeth.  A huge operation.  That could only mean the sheriff had to be in on it.

“That guy over there is the Sheriff and he’s in on it,” I said, bringing another gasp from the men who had stopped unloading and were paying full attention.

“Yep, I’m Sheriff Willie T Tyler,” he said proudly. “And, you’re a dead man, you Jockey wearing, black-footed stalker!”

“Not so fast, Sheriff,” came Betsey’s melodious baritone.  She held her own gun, pointing at the Sheriff’s chest.  “Now, all you vicious hombres git down and eat dirt.”

“Thanks, Betsey,” I said, “but you forgot there aren’t any bullets in your gun.”  I probably shouldn’t have said that.  357 hindsight.

All hell broke loose.  First thing I did was use an unnamed combat move to un-jam the pistol from my Jockeys and turn it on its owner.

“Jokes on you,” he smiled.  “My gun’s not loaded either.”

I looked at the Sheriff.

“Mine neither.”

Even the smartest criminals make simple mistakes. These boys hadn’t been messy enough.  I dove for the closest guy, while two of them climbed on my back and tried to garrote my privates with my own underwear.  My high pitched squeal told everybody they’d found their target.  Then, two of the others started to sweet-talk Betsey.  I saw the look on her face which said, “Oh help!  Oh, help, help!”  It gave me the burst of adrenalin I needed to leap to my feet, free my swollen, non-detachable parts, and start to really hurt some vicious hombre hiney.

Betsey and I took the whole gang out with unnamed combat moves, busting some heads, removing false teeth, tickling them ‘til their fat jiggled like jelly, giving haircuts with broken beer bottles, getting phone numbers so we could contact their next of kin.  When it was over and the last vicious hombre had gone to meet the real egg maker in heaven, Betsey and I saddled up and rode back to town.  The inside of the old Whiffer place looked like there’d been a choco-egg fight in a phone booth.  We’d leave it to the CIA, FBI, and others who knew the alphabet, to figure out how so much damage could be done without a trace of DNA left behind.

My work was done.  It was time for me to move on, so I decided to drift.  It’s what my daddy taught me and it’s what I do best. 

That night Betsey and I had a long heart-to-heart.  We discussed whether eye gouging or splitting infinitives was the best form of submission. Then we talked about us. Even before I’d unsaddled her and taken the bridle off, we agreed that what we had was too good to last, or even to mention to normal people.  Still, parting with Betsey was bittersweet.  She gave me an empty can of chew as a reminder of the wonderful, unmentionable times we’d shared.  I gave her the somewhat stained, camouflaged Jockeys.

When the bus was well out of town, I tossed the chew can out the window.  I like to travel light.  The mournful, drifting sound of my mouth organ was the only reminder that Jock Überreacher been anywhere near Bootyville.

An Unlikely Hero

         


            In the ragged, hot summer of 1934, Tommy Brayfield sweltered in a cheap hotel room with his one true friend, a Smith & Wesson six shot,.38 Special, with a mother of pearl handle.  The window was open and a thin curtain chased a wisp of breeze in and out and carried away the smoke from the Chesterfield that hung off his lip.  Being skinny and missing breakfast didn’t stop him from sweating as he caressed the steel barrel with an oiled rag.  The gun was not a plaything.  It was his life, and he cared for it like it was something alive.  In a way it was.  Tommy carried it for a specific reason.  Sure, he could have gone bigger, or fancier, but the .38 caliber Special was what most police carried, and most soldiers.  Very common.  Hard to trace.   His stomach growled.He’d eat later, after the job was done.  “Steak,” he muttered aloud, “Rare and a full glass of whisky.”  His Adam’s apple bounced without touching the loose, white, but stained shirt collar. The collar was frayed in places.  It mirrored Tommy’s life.  But Tommy wasn’t much for introspection.  Still, he had his pride and especially pride in his work of killing people.  You gave him a job and the job got done.  Most of the time it was simple.  Money changed hands. You came, you shot, you left.           
          If it hadn’t been for that dumb bastard passing him on the street last night at the very moment, the very damn moment, he’d be back in Chicago now, with a full belly and a woman, instead of sweating like a two bit nag in this hick town.  He’d had a chance to do the job and he’d been ready to do it.  Shit, he should have just shot the mark and walked away.  Surprise and speed were the keys. Didn’t matter where and it didn’t matter when.  Chances are that other dumb bastard wouldn’t have gotten a look at him anyway.  This time he’d do it right. But last night still flickered and teased.  It ain’t all that tough, offing a rich husband.  Bam!  Sure thing.  Payday.  Not like that scary shit of driving into a hick town and knocking over a bank.  Dillinger and the boys could have that all to themselves; he’d stick with what he did best.            
          The daily paper rustled a little on the bed.  Headlines read, “Unknowns Rob Madison City Bank.” Tommy glanced at it and shook his head.  “Scary shit,” he said under his breath.
                                                                         *****            
          Mr. Brady strolled into the Police Station, touched his hat and growled a terse good morning to Sara Jane, the Chief’s secretary.  She looked up from her typing.           
          “Chief Collins in?”  He rocked back on his heels, put one hand on his prosperous stomach, then moved his hand up and twisted the end of his waxed mustache. His eyes wandered to strategic places.
          Sara Jane ignored the glances and parried,   “How’s Mrs. Brady?”                                 
          “Fine,” was the terse reply, flavored with a hint of a scowl.             
          The private office was behind a big door, half of it frosted glass.  Curved black letters read, “Elmer G. Collins” and under that a straight line, “Chief of Police.”            
          The Chief got up when Brady walked in.  Big smile and a handshake.  Collins waved him to a hardback wooden chair and sat back down behind his desk.  “What’s on your mind?”           
          “It’s not just my mind, Elmer.  As you know, I’m President of the Merchants’ Association.” There was an imperial, monotone to Brady’s voice that grated, like shaving with a dull razor.  Maybe it was the way his judgmental eyes flicked around the room and the impatient way he shifted in his chair, as though nobody else’s time was quite as valuable.            
          “I surely do know that, and I also know you’re doing a fine job.”  Collins spoke up to cut him off before Brady could begin his usual pontification.            
          “Well,” Brady began again, “We’re coming up on another election.”           
          Another veiled threat, Chief Collins thought, but he didn’t say anything, just pursed his lips and bridged his fingers.           
          “As I was saying, you’ve been a good Chief.”           
          “But,” Collins said.            
          “Well, there’s been some banks robbed and some members of the Association have been getting a little nervous.  You know, robbing a bank is one thing, but scaring off customers is something else.  And, Madison City is less than three hours away.”            
          “Your wallet starting to feel a little thin?”             
          “It’s not the business....” His eyes darted around the room.  “But, they only robbed the Madison Bank a couple of days ago.”            
          “What is it exactly you want me to do?”           
          “We were thinking maybe you could increase the police patrols downtown.”            
          “Horace, I’ve got three men and myself.  All of us are downtown all day, unless something happens that calls us away.”            
          “Exactly, my point.  What if you get called away?”            
          “We’re never called very far or for very long.  My authority ends at the city limit.”            
          The arrogant tone again.  “We really need some protection for the citizens.”            
          Sometimes it’s easier to give an inch.  “Look, I’ll tell you what; until this business with bank robberies calms down, I’ll walk the streets myself.  We can stretch the patrols to a couple hours after dark.”            
          “We were thinking that maybe you should deputize some of the citizens.  Let them sit up in the attics around town.  Maybe let them carry rifles.”            
          Collins wanted to roll his eyes.  He refrained.  Brady might be a little short on courage and long on talk, but the Association all but ruled the town when it came to turning out the vote and paying the bills.  “I don’t like the idea of untrained men with rifles.”
                                                                             *****            
             Miles away, Jackson, Billy, and Fred sat in a barn with an old Ford parked outside.  Jackson was counting, moving the bills into three piles.  “Looks like it’s gonna come out to four hun’ard apiece.”                     
          “Four hun’ard?”  Billy was incredulous.  “I could piss four hun’ard dollars worth of beer.”
          “Yeah,” Fred growled, “You was sayin’ lots before.”  Fred had problems with large numbers, so hundreds probably confused him.                            
          “I know what I was saying,” Jackson replied, trying to keep the edge off his voice, “But four hun’ard apiece is what we got!”  His pitch rose a little in spite of himself.  He shoved back from the table.  “You count it!”  It was a safe bet.  Neither Fred nor Billy could count past ten without taking off their shoes.            
          The conversation went back and forth, with nobody doing anything but complaining, until finally Jackson said, “Look, you want more money, you’re gonna have to rob another bank.”  It got real silent.                          
          “Where?”  Fred asked, unblinking. 
          “There’s a little town ‘bout three hours from Madison,” Jackson said.            
          “Whooowee!”  Billy pulled the silver revolver that was stuffed down his britches and rolled the cylinder.  “Whooowee!  Now you’re talkin’!”            
          Yeah, Jackson thought, now I’m talking, you cretin, but I'm talking to two useful idiots who are going to get me killed.  Billy forgot being upset about the lack of money from the last robbery and went back to grinning and polishing his gun.  The way he waved it around, somebody was going to get hurt.  With any kind of luck, it would be Billy.            
          Fred wasn’t the loose, gunslinger Billy was, but he didn’t test positive for intelligence either.  Periodically, Jackson thought of ditching the both of them, but right now, like them, he was broke.  Four hundred dollars wouldn’t last two months, then he’d be right where he started.  Broke.  He’d make this one last run with the two imbeciles and then cut himself loose.
                                                                            *****            
          It was the Chief’s shift, around noon, while the other men took a nap, or ate lunch, and the sun turned the whole town into a skillet.  A thin layer of dust covered everything like tan ash, including the blades of grass around the courthouse.  Still, he liked the idea of getting out of the office and strolling.  A little sweat was good for the soul. At least he’d been able to convince that fool Brady not to have him turn Main Street into a shooting gallery.              
          The Chief was walking toward the bank, glancing back at Mr. Brady who was standing in front of his store.  He saw a man come out of the hotel and walk toward Brady, a skinny stranger, one hand on a bulge in his coat pocket.  His first thought was that Brady had out foxed him; hired his own guns to patrol the town.   Almost simultaneously, a car swerved around the corner and drove right between the Chief and the stranger.  It screeched to a dusty halt in front of the bank and three armed men jumped out, one of them waving a silver revolver.  Two made for the front door of the bank. Silver Gun stayed in the street. They had hats pulled down tight, the brims shadowing their faces.            
          Sweet kingdom of God, Chief Collins thought as he whirled to face the guy in the street, dropped to one knee, and tugged unsuccessfully at the pistol in his black leather holster.  Being out in the middle of the street in a policeman’s uniform suddenly made him as uncomfortable as a Baptist in a brewery.  “I’m a dead man,” is what he said out loud.  Nobody was listening.            
          Tommy Brayfield strolled out of the hotel and headed toward Brady’s Department Store with murderous intent.  The sun shone in his eyes, but he could make out the rotund figure of Mr. Brady standing in front.  Got the bastard now, he thought, and put his hand on the gun hidden under his coat.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chief Collins.  Shit, he said to himself.  Another needless complication to what should have been over yesterday.            
          Then a car swerved toward him, kicking up enough dust for a rodeo.  The car stopped in a squeal of tires and the next thing he knew, a guy was pointing a gun at him from a distance of about ten yards.  He drew his weapon and sent Billy a chest high shot that shattered ribs and ruptured several major vessels.  Billy pulled at the spreading stain on his chest and wheezed, trying to draw a breath that wouldn’t come.  He fired the silver revolver on his way to the ground, but his depth of vision wasn’t any longer than his lifespan.  The bullet went array, striking Mr. Brady exactly between his beady eyes, dropping him faster than nightfall in December.            
          Tommy Brayfield wheeled around toward Brady and took a few steps, but made the grievous error of swinging his gun in the direction of Chief Collins. The chief had heard the pops from behind the car.  Then several more shots from in front.  Now that skinny stranger stepped into view and was pointing a gun at him.  Who the hell could tell what was going on?  It was like a wild west show in the middle of his quiet little town and here he was rolling around like a dog in a sandbox.  With all the effort and grace of an etherized man trying to escape from a dentist’s chair, he freed his pistol and fired off a few rounds in the general direction of the melee.  He saw a man go down. Between the dust and the heat and the sweat, and having bullets whizzing by, it was all a jerky, blurry movie.  Although he didn’t know it, one of his bullets shattered Tommy Brayfield’s femur and the femoral artery.  Another ricocheted off the street and smashed a store window, scarring hell out of 77-year-old Gertrude Timble, who was in the process of buying blue yarn, but now wet her pants and fainted. The whole thing lasted maybe two minutes, until two men raced out of the bank, screaming at each other and ignoring Billy’s body that lay sprawled in the street. The car sped away. The Chief fired another shot, and had no idea where it went, but nobody fell dead.   The dust settled.  The streets were quiet again.  Three men lay bloody and unmoving in the dust, Brady, Billy, and some poor son-of-a-bitch who’d been walking his dog.
                                                                            *****            
         The town mourned the loss of the President of the Merchant’s Association and most of all the death of the skinny stranger who it was said had killed one of the bank robbers and sent the other two running.  Some of the merchants said the Chief of Police must have taken Brady’s advice and hired an extra gun.  The Chief didn’t deny it.  The newspaper found out the stranger’s name and where he was from.  With Mrs. Brady’s overly enthusiastic blessing, a citizens’ committee collected money to have a statue put up that showed him pointing his pistol and selected an inscription that read, “I may be a stranger, but I come as a friend.”  Some called him a guardian angel.  Chief Collins gave another inch and didn’t disagree.

Fractured- an incredibly short story

        


         I know Mr. Charles doesn’t like me.  You can see it in his beady eyes and the way his lips curl ever so slightly when he stops by my cubical.  He won’t look straight at me.  How can he when the hostility just oozes from him like putrefied garbage?  Thumbs locked under his braces, he rocks back on his heels and you can hear the breath hiss out of him.  A viper about to sink his fangs.  And he asks such inane questions.  “How is the project coming?  Is your wife going to attend the office Christmas party?”  Like he really understands my project, or really knows my wife.  That whiney voice is a dead giveaway.  He should be shot and I don’t mean metaphorically.

         I’m working on the same project I’ve been working on for the past two weeks.  Every Monday morning and every Friday morning, I send a full complement of charts and graphs that fully explains the situation.  It isn’t easy, but of course he wouldn’t know that.  He always calls me, right after the meeting he has on Mondays and Fridays with Mr. Fimburt, and he always implies my work is somehow incomplete.  Next time he comes in my office, I’m going to gut him.

         “What are the results we can expect if sales drop less than one percent in the quarter?”

         “Graph three, sir.”

         A pause, a shuffling of paper.  “That graph is of somewhat limited value.”

         “It’s the one you asked for.”  I told him the graph was useless when he asked me to make it, but of course he ignored me.

         Pause.  More paper movement.  “Perhaps we should rethink the relevance of putting projections and hard number columns on the same page. It’s confusing.”

         “I can easily separate them, if you’d prefer, sir.”  It was my idea to separate them in the first place.  His tongue should be ripped from his head.

         On and on it goes.  Half my life is re-answering questions and rearranging the same figures on new charts, in the futile hope of penetrating his fogged mind.  Fat chance.  I tell you, the man doesn’t like anything about me.  It’s true I got a hefty raise, but that was only because he couldn’t very well turn his back after all the things I’ve done for the company.  No, my raise was just to cover his own backsides.  He thinks I’m fooled by it, but I’m not.  Not even for a minute.  He’ll soon find out how unfooled I am.

         And the bit about the Christmas party?  What a crock!  If I asked him, Mr. Charles wouldn’t know my wife’s name if I branded it on his chest.  I may do just that.  He’s met her at least four or five times!  Where does the company find these cretins and why do they put them in charge?  I remember Mr. Charles’ wife’s name.  It’s Emily.  Not that I ever call her Emily.  I always call her Mrs. Charles, but at least I know her Christian name.  I know his children’s names and his street address and his home phone number.  Once when I was in his office and he kicked off his shoes, scattering them all over the place, I glanced down and noted his shoe size.   Oh, yes, I know lots about our Mr. Charles and he can’t even remember my wife’s first name? Harriet.   Not an especially tough name to remember is it?

         Come to think of it, Mr. Charles may not even know my first name.  He always calls me mister, then pauses to look at the nameplate on my desk.  He’s shifty and hides it well, but I can tell what he’s doing.  He’d probably deny that.  He’d probably lie.  My first name is Jerry, just so you don’t have to thumb through your Rolodex or type my last name into your computer.  I’m paying you enough that you should at least remember my name.  See, I even know how much you make per hour.  It’s more than you know about me.

         I saw the picture of your wife on your desk and it’s signed ‘Rita.’  The soles of your shoes are worn.  You can obviously afford a new pair, but you just don’t have the time.  Am I right? So, do you even remember what I just told you?  Do you know my wife’s name?  Emily?  Very poor.  That’s Mr. Charles’ wife’s name, numbskull.  You’re not paying attention.  I could tell earlier.  Do you know you shift in your seat a lot?  You’re a squirmer and squirmers don’t usually pay attention.  You know what they say:  if a person can’t remember something it’s because he’s trying hard to forget.  So, maybe you know my wife better than I think you do.

         Look at that!  You dropped your pen.  Very significant if you ask me, and your wafer thin, half-smiles don’t change my opinion one iota.

         Paranoid?  When you call me a name it’s just a weak attempt to change the subject.  You may not think it's important, but I find it not only important, but personally insulting.  You don’t like me, do you doctor?  Well, get in line.

         Here’s another tough question for that giant, doctor brain.  What’s my name?  Jerry?  Very good.  Very, very good.  Maybe I’ll remember to send you your check after all.

         Do I make you nervous?  God, my collar is tight.  Just reach over here and loosen it. Well, answer my question!  Do I Make You Nervous?  The question isn’t that difficult.  Ha, ha!  You’re more nervous when you drive to work.  Very funny!  Do realize you’ve picked up your water glass twice without taking a sip?  What does that tell you?

         What do I think about my wife?  What the hell kind of question is that?  And by the way, I’ll thank you to call her by her name.

         Well, she’s very intelligent for one thing.  She has a Ph.D. and don’t think for a minute she ever lets me or anyone else forget it. Oh, I know the name of the university all right, but it makes me want to puke when I say it, so I won’t say it.

         The other day she told me, “Getting an advanced degree was a burden, but it was worth it and I thank you everyday for putting up with all I had to go through.”  That’s a laugh.  It’s just another way she has of belittling me because I don't’ have Dr. in front of my name.  But, you already know about that, don’t you DOCTOR!

         She’s published in some high-powered journals and got her picture on the cover of Newsweek magazine.  I mean it wasn’t the whole cover.  She was with a group of twenty-five or thirty people.  There she was.  Big, bold smile.  That smile hides a lot.  Ask me anything you want to know about her.  IQ?  Shoe size?  Favorite foods?  I could tell you all about those little trivialities.  Just don’t ask me about sex.  I won’t talk about that even if you are a doctor, you pervert.

         Well, you’re right.  This hour is supposed to be about me, not about that crone I’m married to.  She can get her own shrink and don’t think she couldn’t talk his ear off!  Talk?  That woman makes Larry King seem autistic.

         Why do I call her a crone if she’s beautiful?  The eye of the beholder and all that for one thing.  For another, she hates me.  Hate may be a tad too strong.  The woman is so vapid she’s incapable.   Hate, I mean real hate, takes time, energy, concentration, and most of all emotion.  When it comes to my wife, her bucket of energy and emotion is as dry as an AA meeting.  Anyway, she dislikes me.  That makes her very, very ugly, at least where yours truly is concerned.  I wouldn’t make love to her on a bet, even though she’s always begging for it.  Oh, yeah!  Well, I mean, she doesn’t come right out and say it, but a man can tell, can’t he doctor?  Those chance encounters in the laundry room when she just happens to be hanging up her delicates?  Not a chance.  She’s too ugly where it really counts, on the inside.  She’s got a nice figure, pretty well rounded, if you know what I mean.  But, I just can’t do the deed. 

         Oh, I know what you’re thinking, but there’s nothing wrong with the old equipment. The woman dislikes me, with a capital D-I-S.  Would you make love to a woman whom you know can’t stand you?

         So, doc, when are we going to make some progress?  I’m waiting on progress and at the rate you charge, progress should be riding a bullet train.  You say you want to ask a few more questions?  There always seem to be a few more questions.  Long on questions, short on results is what I’m saying.  You ever been castrated, Doc?  Just wondering if you’d like to know what it feels like.

         Mr. Charles? You keep changing the subject.  I can’t believe I need to go into more detail.  More useless trivia.  You know, I’m starting to get the idea that you’re not any more fond of me than he is.

         You think I might need a referral?  To whom?  Another shrink?  I don’t care whether you like that term or not.  This isn’t about you; it’s about me, you moron!  Besides, after the nut cutting, you won’t care one way or another.   Sounds like another racket to put somebody else on my payroll.  What the hell do I need with another doctor?  And these straps are really getting tight.  I’m starting to feel like Venus de Milo.   Loosen ‘em up, meathead.  You really do dislike me, don’t you Doc!  Have you been talking to my wife, or maybe to Mr. Charles?  What the hell are you doing with that needle?

A Fetid Wind Blows in Scotland

         


            Dr. Rodney Hardstone sat at a sun-blessed table in the Rotted Apple Tea Emporium, perusing a crisp copy of The Establishment Times. When he reached up absentmindedly to adjust the Windsor knot on his Dunhill tie, the sleeve of his tweed blazer caught the edge of a silver butter knife, sending it careening to the marble floor.

            It raised such a clatter, all the patrons looked ‘round to see what was the matter. One of the serving girls sped forward and crouched down to retrieve it.  At the same instant, Dr. Hardstone leaned over the side of his chair to do the same.  Their heads nearly touched.  It was a magic moment.  Astonishment crossed his ruggedly handsome face as he found himself looking directly into the most beautiful jade green eyes.  He managed to exclaim, “Well, fondle my grapes!” only to see the owner of the eyes blush and turn away.

            This startling, raven-haired beauty deserved another look, or even more if he played his cards right. He asked the tea parlor’s owner, whom he’d known only since Friday, the name of the waitress.  Gertrude Stilthbottomm. 

            “That’s spelled with two m’s, the owner leered.  “We had to add the extra m to distinguish her time card from the other Stilthbottom’s who’s so homely we restrict her to the kitchen, except on Halloween.

            “Ah,” Dr. Hardstone replied, although in truth he could not have cared less about m and m’s.

            One visit to the Rotted Apple led to another and through delicate dialog, persistent persuasion, and sniveling sycophancy, he lured the willing waitress into revealing the devious detours that had led her to work as a menial maid. She breathlessly whispered her name, “Synthia Shibboleth,” and although she did her banal bit, she was in fact a laid off atomic scientist, and heir to a Scottish Dukedom.

            “An atomic scientist?” he queried, “Making bombs and whatnot?”

            “Oh no,” she blushed, “Not that kind of atomic.  I’m a chemist with the Atomic Jawbreaker Company.”

            “Hummmmm,” murmured the doctor. “So, no radioactivity, or mutations in the family?  No loose isotopes laying about?”

            “Dr Hardstone,” she implored him, “Although I hate you and you’re a frightful human being, and I know you would lie and cheat to get what you want from me….”

“Yes, yes, go on,” he answered.

“Whom I would never, never marry, or even, you know, kiss and stuff.  Even so, only you can help me return to Scotland and reclaim my ancestral lands, which the evil Earl of Shippingcrateshire is planning to sell to mortgage companies to turn into a suppository for toxic bonds.”  She pronounced Scotland as though trying to say it and swallow it in the same gulp.

“You mean a depository for toxic bombs.”

“Whatever.  It’s so Confucious.”

“You mean confusing.”

“Look, are you going to help me or sit there and do an oral spell-check all day?”

“And to what better use could you put your green, pastoral ancestral fields, my addled beauty?”

She got a far away look in her eye, making her bounteous bosom heave like two Spanish galleons on a temptuous sea.  “I….I….I ..”

“Those are nautical terms, yes?”

“I would donate my life and my land to establishing a pigeon park, where old carrier pigeons could live out their last, disease ridden days.”  A tear crept down her alabaster cheek.

Dr. Hardstone’s brows arched, making it three of a kind.  The girl had possibilities, even though some of her atomic particles were way out of orbit.  Well he’d never been to Scotland, but he kinda liked the music.

And so, the adventure began.