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?

Daybreak

 

Bright corners of the new day crawled sleepily through the trees outside her house, a humble home in a humble village.  She stood quietly on the stone veranda, sipping from a white and blue ceramic cup, awakening her throat with the bitter brew, her housecoat wrapped round her slim body. It had become her habit of arising early, embracing the dawn as a symbol of what it meant to be alive.  Boy, did she feel alive! 

 

She hadn’t followed the pattern all her life, but ever since her husband was suddenly gone.  It had been six years to the day when she got the phone call.

 

“I want a divorce.”

 

She didn’t miss him, which also evoked the memory of a certain sadness.  Not the sadness of the phone called, but the sadness that had lingered through twenty years of marriage. Sadness could turn into a bad habit, but at last she’d shoved it away, let it drown in the river of bad memories.

 

Her two kids, both of them grown, had settled far away, on the other side of the globe.  North and South Carolina, Raleigh and Charleston.

 

Maybe she should live closer, but England suited her.  As strange as it sounded, even to her, the weather suited her, the small cottage, the changing seasons, and a location that required little effort to travel to the nearest city, and cities on the continent.  She and her friend, Francine, had just come back from a two months stay in a small town on the edge of Paris. At least she had returned.

 

Her high school French had been brushed up, refurbished, to the extent that she could parler with waiters and trainsmen, and buy a new blouse on the first try, and read the newspapers, except when it was peppered with local dialect.

 

Francine was French and decided to stay. Good for her!  Of course, Jean Pierre had something to do with it. 

 

She had slept with him, too. As excitingly delicious as a fresh croissant with fig jam and a café au lait.  But, of course eating breakfast all the time, and just breakfast, could become slightly boring.  Besides, she found his someone bulging stomach a little off-putting.  No he was not fat, but not the slim French lad that had settled in her imagination since she was a girl.  He did have the French charm, a gallon of it. So the once…or was it twice…?  Francine knew. She had to have known.  Ah, well, Francine never mentioned it and goodness knows she wouldn’t.

 

Jean Pierre and Francine fought off and on, and one night when the heat of confrontation simmered, Francine said, “Here, you take him.”  That was that. C’est l’amour.  But, two nights were enough, sure enough.

 

The French are more open minded.  That’s what Americans say.  Better put to say, in France, liaisons are accepted as a part of nature for both men and women, the part of the brain that says, let’s meet in the afternoon, but don’t let it spoil a friendship.  Cinq à Sept?  Five to seven would be perfect for me, she thought.

 

Francine and Jean Pierre had gotten married a couple of weeks later, the occasion celebrated in a small stone church that was old enough and dusty enough to have served as a delightful spot for honoring the Roman god of dandruff. The priest was slightly younger than the church, short, gray, and a testimony to osteoporosis.  He mumbled in a confused manor that left the bride and groom asking, “Pardon?” more than once or twice. The priest kept going, evidently not able to slow down and risk losing his place in line.  The bride and groom did the best they could and stuck in answers from time to time, randomly, and with great emotion.  “Our heaving faber, how be thy namb.” I do!  Me, too!

 

A small affair and she had served as the Maid of Honor. Several persons from the village of Pont de Pierre, Stonebridge, attended, Pierre meaning stone as well as Peter.  She’d had a chuckle over that.

 

The attendees were a scattering of mostly the old and feeble who’d heard there was an availability of cake. The older women supplied congratulatory tears at various times, whether out of sympathy for the groom, or just forgetting where they were and how they had gotten there.

 

Jean Pierre didn’t just offer cake, but a spit roasted pig and variety of baked vegetables, doused with sauces. Naturally, there was beaucoup wine and chunks of baguettes.  Soon neighbors who had missed the wedding turned up with more jugs of wine and well named homemade brandy referred to as Merde de Chèvres, goat droppings.

 

Everyone celebrated well into the evening.  Ah, the memories. She awoke at the breaking of a new day, next to a somewhat familiar face in her bed. It was that first dawn that reawakened her to the beauty of life.  

 

Now that she was back at home, it was time to readjust a bit.  

 

Jean Pierre’s brother, Andre, a slimmer version of his younger brother, came up behind her, as she stood on the veranda, and put his arm around her waist.  “Pourquoi aimes-tu tant le lever du soleil?” Why do you love the sunrise so much?”

 

 

 

 

Dead is Dead by Mort U. Arry

                              

Yes dead is dead unless you want it to be something else, but it will cost you. 

 

 ---Al Most, Attorney at Law, and other stuff

 

Just because a man has been shot and stabbed it don’t mean a crime was committed.  Most likely it was a shaving accident while deer hunting.

 

---Sheriff Tally Hoe

 

The devil works in mysterious ways.  Can I get an Amen and another slice of that peach pie?

 

---The Reverend Sally Forth, Preacher at the Eve Was Right Church of the Garden.

 

The people deserve to know the truth, I guess.  Maybe not.  We’re still discussing it.  And what is the truth, really?

 

---TV talking head Alice Fair, The Mourning Hour

 

AnD sO It BeGaN

 

It was early evening when a figure moved through the shadows of the frigid night, one foot at a time, although he preferred hopping on one leg in time to the music that played loudly in his head that would fit perfectly into a 7 ½ sized hat, if he had been wearing a hat. Instead, he wore an XL black panty hose, with only one eye-hole, a trick he’d learned riding with The Overripe Persimmon Motorcycle Club, when Rocky “Big Eyes” Rhode caught a bumble bee in the eye and needed a flat heat screwdriver to dig it out. Afterwards he was just known as Rocky.

 

But, back to the avenger:  Perhaps he should have cut one leg off the pantyhose to keep from tripping.  He was not a quick learner and still limped from the second and third times.

 

Under his arm was a Salver model 14mQ, loaded with a full clip of 7.66 millimeter, highly polished brass cartridges with steel piercing bullets, made especially for him by the little known Happy As a Fragrant Clown Gun Shop and Ice Cream Parlor in South Philly.  The gun was so accurate he could correct a squirrel’s astigmatism at a hundred yards,  but it was another learning process. A few squirrels mistook headlights for sunrise.  Some of their friends stood on street corners, cups in their tiny claws, waiting for nut donations.

 

The target, Wiber Willright had a titanium plate in his head from a previous attempt on his life.  The first assassin tried to do the job with fossilized deer antlers, mounted on the hood of a black and red 1954 Chevy.  The killer didn’t survive the Chevy blowing a rod that pierced his heart.  With the new assassin there would be no mistakes. He was a professional and knew to keep things simple, mostly.  You find, you kill, you get paid; you spend your money on expensive whiskey and cheap women, or that was the plan.  So far he’d found no cheap women and he took this job because he was also running short of whisky.

 

Willright, lived on Casanova Avenue in a heavily gated community, if you could call one house and sheep farms a community.  The gate was so heavy it took two men and a harnessed donkey to drag it open.  The donkey would rather have been frolicking with a very cute filly in the back forty, but no one had asked him. Sadly, frolicking was still a distant dream.

 

Willwright had not previously had a heart condition, but after the near miss, his heart pounded every time the gate creaked open, or he saw deer antlers, or the donkey brayed.  Nor was he fond of 1954 Chevys.  These days, he mostly sat in his massively fortified home, in front of the TV, on a couch once owned by Roy Roger’s horse, Trigger, doing obscene crossword puzzles, asking himself questions, such as what rhymes with snore and banal pecks?

 

Not short of ideas and possibilities, his assassin reached the gate and paused to change into this boots with the soles sewed on backwards,  so trackers would only know where he’d been, made for him in London in a shop with a sign on the front that said, NO soul resides in this establishment and that means you, you soulless heathen!

 

Using an old trick he’d learned in survival camp, after he’d been lost for several days, he whistled.  Loudly.  The donkey stampeded.  The men’s attention was on the animal that had mistook the whistle for someone calling the frolicking filly.  Raging hormones pulled the gate open by several feet.

 

The assassin saw his chance, managing to slip through and stumble into the bushes unnoticed.

 

He quickly and almost silently cocked his Salver model 14mQ, especially designed with a soundlessly clicking clicker.  It was then he discovered he’d left the 14 bullet clip on his dining room table, along with his see through socks.  

 

Damn, the boots hurt his feet, chaffed his calves, making him say very naughty things. He regretted not paying the extra $600 for the double padded cheetah skin bouncy heels.  Fortunately, he had sprung for the sparking electric laces and internal, automatic athletes foot sprayer.. 

 

With no squirrel piercing ammo, he would have to improvise.  He tapped the side pocket of his French commando, 1959 Rothschild wine and Brie scented pants. Fortunately, he had brought his self guided Lightening Tomahawk; built in a tiny New Mexico pueblo by who else! Tommy Hawk, the noted rifle stock manipulator and gun sight schemer, known for once selling a gun sight to a blind fortune hunter.

 

As he approached the house, two robotic pit bulls growled and ran metallically toward him.  His electric bootlaces quickly shorted their circuits. They barked no longer, but began to moo and mow the lawn.  

 

One window was open.  Unfortunately it was the window to the sixteen car garage.  Then his luck changed.  Willwright appeared at the window near the eight-foot high custom made sixteen pane beveled front door. The killer had seen doors like this, made by Johnny Appleseed’s great grandfather, the apple tree slayer.

 

The quiet avenger threw the hatchet-tomahawk, which went through the window, but bounced off the titanium plate in Willwright’s  head.  Blood streamed down his shirt and he rushed upstairs to change and desperately search for his Ranger Rough Rider flintlock buffalo long rifle, purchased at a cigar store in northern Maine and kept in a locked gun case, inside a locked gun cabinet, in the locked safe room in the basement.  He could only find two keys!  Where the hell had he put the key to the save room?  Then he remembered it was in the Trust and Hope Savings Bank, in a safety deposit box, only available on Tuesday and Thursdays from 9 to 9.15 a.m.  “Well, darn it,” he said.

 

By this time, the avenger had made it through the broken window, using his 4 gauge, stainless steel, handmade window smasher and bottle opener. He quickly retrieved his Tomahawk and began climbing the stairs.

 

Willwright stood on the top step looking, bewitched, bothered and bewildered. This time the Tomahawk found a perfect resting place in Willwright’s chest.  Dang, he thought, as life ebbed; he should have remembered to put on his Kevlar vest when he was changing into a clean shirt.

 

By the time the time delayed house alarm went off and the cops responded, the avenger was long gone. 

 

Sheriff Tally Hoe and his team of detectives saw this for what it was.  Obviously, Mr. Willwright had heard his dogs mooing and gone to an upstairs window to investigate, carrying his high tech hatchet, then had a heart attack and tumbled down the stairs.  The Sheriff reasoned that since Willwright was hunting for a possible intruder, “We’ll call this one a hunting accident.”

 

Alice Fair of The Mourning Hour wanted to know, “What about the broken window?”

 

“No idea.  Windows break all the time.”

 

Al Most, Attorney at Law and stuff, asked if Willwright had an attorney.

 

Nobody knew, but Mr. Most thought he might be able to find a distant cousin and help him settle the estate, or join a profitable business venture, turning used inner-tubes into horse condoms.

 

The Reverend Sally Forth described Willwright’s passing as an act of providence, adding that Willwright never gave a cent to her church, refused to give her another piece of peach pie, and got what he deserved.  After several snifters of medicinal brandy, she dropped to her arthritic knees and recanted, ready to do the Christian thing and forgive all number of sins done by people she didn’t know and had never met, but leaving out several of her parishioners.

 

The avenger?  No one knows for sure, but a man, wearing a size 7 ½ hat and carrying what appeared to be a new, custom made hatchet, stopped at the Come And Get Me Wholesale No Tell Gun Shop to buy several boxes of dark, XL panty hose that were on sale, with no questions asked. Limit four.

* Yes, this is satire, a take off on thrillers.  If you know any of these people, don't tell me.  I don't want to know.*

 

 

Harold Judy Good

Harold sat at a table for two in the bright Florida sun.  At least he sat there for a while before his thinking cap overheated, a black ball cap.  The front read, Love to Hate in red letters. Flashes of sun blocked out the keyboard.  The back of the hat read, also in red letters, You’re My Dream Bitch.  He found this persuasively obnoxious, and a clever disguise.

Once back in the shadows of a large, green canvas awning, he began to type again, a novel of love and deception.  The working title was Hurt So Good.  

 

Harold rather fancied his name de plume, Judy Good.  Hard to believe a bachelor, using a woman’s name could sell books, but he already had half a dozen on the shelves, and just knew Hurt So Good would be his best.  Couldn’t miss.  His technique was to write whatever came into his mind and tickled his fingers.  Afterwards, he could make any necessary changes. 

 

His first romantic novel, Countess Jupiter Is Not Pregnant, did very well, as did the follow up, Oh Yes She Is. However the third part of the trilogy, The Count Has His Doubts, slacked a bit, with several wives writing that he/she had ruined their marriages.

 

But, this next one would be super. Hurt, as he called it, began on the Italian Riviera, with a fisherman’s daughter falling into a net, half drowning before a fabulously good looking millionaire dove off the deck of his passing yacht and saved her.

 

He was the third multimillionaire to dive to her rescue.  Matter of fact, her father had given up fishing completely and was satisfied with just netting.  He spoke perfect English, but broken Italian worked better, especially if the yacht flew an American or British flag.

 

“Help-O!  Help-O!  Mia Butiful dog-ter is she to drown-O!”

 

Adolfo Gleason had waited years for a chance like this; in fact he had tossed many a maiden into the briny just for practice. “Scream louder!” His hands cups as a megaphone.  “Duck your damn head a couple of times!”

 

The last one, Gloria Morning, a Bulgarian stripper, actually could not swim and when she yelled and went under, coming up and sloppily paddling like a terrified house cat, the screams were real.

 

“One of the best!” was Adolfo’s comment, “Really great thrashing,” he said with a glamorous show of perfect, glistening white teeth.

 

Over supper, he suggested Gloria try it again in the blackness of night.  
Against vicious protestations to the contrary, mostly in rapid fire Bulgarian, including an un-translated, “I will strike significant damage to your particulars”, he tossed her overboard. This time the show was really terrific, including the struggle on deck. So terrific in fact, he paid for her year’s stay in a psychiatric hospital, so afraid of water she couldn’t wash her hands without paddling the air and wetting herself.  Doctor Leroy Felter found it amusing and loved to see her do her hippy-hop dance in the hot tub, held down by four very masculine nurses. Then, when unannounced, he joined her, well, it was a real show.

 

One night she escaped, but she didn’t get far.  After changing her pronoun, she forgot to change her given name. She booked a room at the Motel de Jour or de Hour, awaking and screaming loud enough to wake the owner, in the middle of a rain storm.  He plodded through the downpour and seeing the crazy woman on her hands and knees, ripping up carpet with her teeth, he called the police.

 

Dr. Felter welcomed her back with a broad smile and his pet name for her, Hot Tubby, and a smiling shriek of “Take Tubby to the Hot Tubby!”

 

A year later, when she turned catatonic, he pronounced her cured.  She no longer feared water, or conversation, or deodorant, or playing I’ve got a secret. She also found a fondness for bondage, and laboratory animals, and humming the Bulgarian Love Chant.

 

Judy Good (Harold) turned the page and wrote on at a fevered pace. Time to go back to Adolfo and his newly found fisherman’s beautiful daughter, whose name was Triumphina.   She had large….let’s see, he thought.  What the hell should be large that wasn’t a cliché?  Large hair?  No, too Texas.  Must be Italian.  Large spaghetti pots!  Readers might see that as a euphemism, but it was good, and he’d save it for later.  Ah, big nostrils!  Huge nostrils!  Nostrils you could put your fist in!  Maybe that was overdoing it, but at least sizeable nostrils.  Also a large smile!  He’d run with that.  A smile so large lobsters thought it was a trap!  Wolves ran in fear.  Let’s give her a snicker, too.  Let her snicker every time she smiled, which made her sound like she had a serious sinus problem, but after all, she’d almost drowned so many times, she probably had an Ear, Nose and Throat doc on call.

 

Ah, but her father was certainly fond of Adolfo.  Much better than the last one, Francis of Assisi, whom he had taken to calling Ass-i After being poked in the eye when Ass-i genuflected.   But, Ass-i was rich.  Very rich.  Paid off well when Triumphina reported she was with child.  Not a huge lie because although she wasn’t p.g.,  she did have two kids.

 

But, Adolfo!  What a catch.  Rich as a Cardinal, and with a huge yacht which Triumhina’s father liked to gape at out of his one good eye. Adolfo could be the end all and be all and a clear frontrunner on the trail to riches.

 

How to end this enticing tail?  Judy Good pondered it, then smiled.

 

Trumphina’s father did not bother to tell her that this was the last inning and they were so far ahead Babe Ruth and the entire 1927 Yankees could never catch up.

 

It was the dark of night and he didn’t notice much of anything, but gasped when he got to the fishing boat and saw his daughter jump over the side, into the net!  Who let the net out? Woof Woof, Woof Woof. Why did she jump now? 

 

He climbed on deck and raced to the stern.  He’d seen Triumphina jump, but why didn’t she come back up? Her super large nostrils didn’t even blow large bubbles. A hole in the net told the story.  He looked again and the two cement blocks that usually held the folded net in place were also missing.  Plus, a bit of rope lay near where the net should be.

 

Then a solid board caught him in the back of the head and he also fell overboard and through the net.

 

Adolfo stepped out of the shadows, moved closer and looked down at the water.  No bubbles, although there was the chance the fisherman’s body would eventually rise. 

 

Of no concern. He’d be on his yacht, half a mile from the dock, and on his way within a couple of hours. No one knew him or about his connections to anyone here.  He smiled.

 

Ah, home at last.  The spaciousness was calming.  And alone was even better. Adolfo started to call Stevenson to get his ass in there and fix him a perfect Manhattan, and perhaps a few crackers the cook had conjured up, along with a plate of oil cured olives and slices of aged Manchego.  He’d forgotten he’d given the crew the evening off.  Just as well; if they were questioned, they couldn’t say when he had gone or where he had gone, of when he returned.

 

Ah, yes, a drink.  He poured whiskey over ice and listened to it crackle.  Then he heard a noise, just a slight creaking.  He went back to sipping.  Got to be the boat.  It did shake a little bit.  Not enough to spill his drink.  Took a lot to shake this big bitch of a boat significantly. 

 

Then he heard another noise.  A small boat tapped and scraped against the yacht.  Must be the crew.

 

She stood with a gun in her hand, a small black automatic. Gloria Hot Tubby.

 

“Don’t do it,” he said solemnly, but the ice in his glass did shake a little.

 

She motioned toward the stairs that led to the deck and pointed to a rope.

 

The police ruled it an accident.  Obviously the man had started the boat, caught his foot in a rope and fallen overboard.  The boat was anchored and must have churned in tight circles for an hour or more before someone reported it. Simple. Death by drowning.

 

Dr. Felter sat quietly in his office.  Evening had come, the patients were off to bed, the nurses, except for the ones on the wards sat quietly reading, or sipping coffee.  And then he heard a noise…

 

Judy Good (Harold) reread the skeleton sketch of his story.  And with a few changes, it could be really good.

There were no giant holes, just character nudges.  Toss in some real romance, and a castle or two in Ireland or Scotland.   He could sub a castle for the fishing boat and toss a wedding in there and the mandatory breakup.  Then, right before the wedding, when the bride found who she was really in love with….  A Lard reclaiming lost lands. He’d keep the Adolfo name…Yes, an Italian Lard by marriage, living in Scotland. Some scoundrel and scandal never hurt.   But, where would he put the yacht/castle?

 

No real beauties, but that could be overcome. Christ, get rid of the big nostrils and add some bosoms worthy of a salacious mention….Dr Felter would have to go….no, wait a sec, he could be a knight with a large…. ah dungeon…lots of room for whips and chains and swordfights in the stone corridors.  Suppose Dr Felter’s name was Sir Buford Longshanks.

 

He could do this!  The story almost wrote itself!

 

He signed and turned his hat around.  The waitress walked over and slapped him hard enough to give him a concussion.  “Naughty, naughty lad,” she snarled. “Your hat is an affront to womanhood!”

 

“Would you like to be in a book?  I can fit you right in.”

 

 

 

His New Novel

 

His New Novel

 

Even from a distance, as soon as she walked through the wrought iron, waist high gate and sauntered across the restaurant's crowded patio, he knew she was beautiful, although others might differ, especially those who embraced the petulant faced, waiver thin, cookie cutter blond versions of womanhood.  The male models are not any better.  Thin as washboards, with every look equally dipped in the bucket of petulance.

 

Why do fashion magazines pick skeletal men and women, with dead eyes and lips so puffy they need to be muzzled?

 

This woman’s smile of pearly teeth would light up a room, or a patio for that matter, and her Marilyn Monroe curves, which today’s Hollywood would describe as fat, would capture every male eye.  Oh, the gently swaying hips under a peach and white springtime skirt, the billowing white, sleeveless blouse, the sparkling blue eyes, the careless way she sat, and how she lightly crossed her legs and tossed her hair before sipping her flute of champagne.  Come to think of it, he couldn’t see her eyes from where he sat, or the pearly teeth, but it didn’t really matter. Ah, the long, careful fingers that held the stem. Tastefully, elegant red fingernails and toenails on beautifully formed, sandaled feet. He could barely see the sandals or the feet, but his mind swam in a cloudy dream.

 

No matter her real name, to him she would be Juliane, the star of his budding novel.  Thoughts swirled with the places he’d take her. To the broad streets of Paris, of course, but also London and Brussels and the sun blessed Italian Riviera, with it’s outdoor cafes and white cloth covered tables, delicately chilled white wines that forever live in memory, and bowls of the freshest harvest from the sea, served in large, colorful bowls by white shirted waiters.  And the bread!  On my wonder, the bread, a perfectly, crusty match for butter and wine sauced black mussels.

She would speak English and Italian and French, naturally.  Who could win the favors of such a woman?  Only a spy.  No, not an ordinary spy, but a young, cultured man of wealth who’d been trapped into spying. Yes, that kind of spy.  Hummmm…a man of noble blood and exquisite taste, whose family is torn between cooperation with those they detest and preservation of house and home.

 

When?  What year?  The war years are most interesting, or the buildup leading to the war years, when the destiny of all of Europe was a guessing game, fueled by whispered conversations in taverns and coffee shops, laced with intrigue that bonds new friends and sly enemies in a chess match of mistrust and survival.

 

1937.  Perfect.  Franco has set the destiny of Spain in a bloody, terrible conflict that won’t end for another two years.  Only the besieged and starving cities of Madrid and Barcelona are still held by the Republicans.  And, now that Germany and Italy had seen how it’s done, they will probably wade into the depths.  Or will they? Ah, the glory of the indefinite scribe.

 

His pen inked a page in his black Moleskin notebook, the skeleton of the plot assembled in black ink on the white pages, with pauses to allow his scribbling to catch up with his scurrying thoughts. Then another page and yet another.

 

Perhaps his novel should be set in the darkness of prewar Paris with optimism fading to despair, amid dangerous thoughts that the huge French army might not prevail, and flanked by France’s desperate hope that the Maginot Line could withstand the onslaught of Germany’s iron fist.

 

He glanced again at the woman. Was she talking to her companion, an older woman?  No, she was listening. Then why were her lips….oh my god, she’s chewing gum, her jaw so slack, he could almost hear the smacking of her lips. That would not do.  But, he could write that out.  No matter. Still, it disturbed him, causing fissures in his sense of perfection.  The fissures slowly became open cracks. It was as if the Mona Lisa, which the French call la Joconde (the happy one), had been splattered with brown globs of freshly spit chewing tobacco.

 

No matter.  He’d deal with that later. He continued to write.  The white paper turned a light gray as a cloud passed.  He stole another glance.  She was smoking a cigarette while chewing gum and he saw her in profile. Deep wrinkles that a crow would be proud of on the corner of her eye.  Made him wish he’d ignored her and left well enough alone.  

 

But, he pressed on, his curiosity a wildcat clawing and hissing.  She had a tattoo on her wrist.  He could just barely make out some guy’s name and something like a protestation of eternal love.  Eternally ugly was more like it.  The tattooist must have been a nervous, one-eyed drunk. Green and red and black ink?  Gauche.  

 

She was older than he’d imagined.  The cloud drifted and the sun came back to reveal dark roots when she tossed her hair. She shouldn’t toss it.  She should have a little pride and wear a close fitting cap or beret.  Hopefully not a ball cap.

 

She looked his way as she reached back and scratched well below her hip.  No doubt she would say something vulgar, then belch.

 

Well, he thought, he could still use her in the novel.  Maybe she could service drunken sailors on the docks at Le Havre.  Maybe she already had. But, she didn’t look French, or well traveled. More likely she’d been fired from a run down coffee shop for being late to work and having dirt under her fingernails. If he used her, it had to be in a minor role to add some color. He’d just have to kill her off in chapter two.

 

He knew he was being shallow.  She would fit well as Faganella in a new version of Oliver Twisted.

 

Nope, he wasn’t going to change horses, not after already having scribed fourteen pages in his notebook. He’d stick with Paris, 1937 and make her a Nazi spy.  Vicious.  Uncaring.  Pulling the wings off of flies. He’d change her name to Helga, code name Tart. But, he’d still kill her off.  The mere thought settled him.

 

He looked around, searching the crowd. Got to be a heroine here.

 

Carburetor Tales

 

Carburetor Tales

 

Most of this story is true, or at least as true as my close friend, Bryan Pace, could make it, which leaves room for disturbing doubt. 

 

There are some things you need to know about Bryan, besides his often subtle prevarication. He was retired and short of statue, but was the kind of guy you noticed immediately, for his thick crop of silver hair, friendly, expressive eyes, a ready smile and a slight pouch around the waist. Despite age doing its damnest to creep into his life, he still exuded intensity and the boiling energy of a man with things to do. 

 

Part of his defiance in the face of sullenly creeping age, was attention to detail, allied with a magnetic memory, and a low tolerance for folks wasting his time.  He also often slashed with a wit as keen as the tip of a polished rapier.

 

After his retirement, he worked in a small carburetor shop in an old, garage that used to be a store, whose original purpose was well past memory, and bore the jagged scars of severe neglect, with gaps of peeling paint on the once white cinderblocks, and a collection of grayish, dust decorated windows. A broad, stained and cracked concrete apron, as wide as the shop, completed the look.  The only thing new was an oval, white sign advertising Jimmy’s Carb Shop, in blocked black lettering.

 

The shop faced a potholed, neighborhood street whose houses had already seen better days, many of the yards littered with rusted bikes, cars on blocks, and backyards that served as graveyards for rusted barbeque grills.

 

Bryan was the shop’s lone worker.  Didn’t bother him a bit. Precision required patience and stony silence. 

 

The absentee owner was called Melvin, so no telling where the name of the shop came from.  But, I had to ask and Bryan had to tell me, beginning with Sherman’s march through Atlanta.

 

The only reason Bryan worked in the out of the way shop was his fascination with the mechanical and as an encouragement to get up each morning and continue the task of living. Visions of floats and gears, gaskets and springs, differences in each model of carburetor, danced in his head, and held his attention more than a large busted stripper shaking her assets at a frat party.  Both were definitely more entertaining than his ex wife, Dracula’s ruthless stepdaughter. Fortunately, she was out of his life, having run away with a man named Wooster, whom Bryan called Pimpster.

 

Visitors to the shop were few, but even the few sometimes presented challenges.  There was a rebuild for the carb off a 1958 Desoto, and a 1952 Chevy carb more grease than carb.  He also had his favorites. And one carb Bryan still remembered reverently was the four barreled beauty from a powerful Plymouth.  He’d searched the broad horizons to find the parts, but one thing led to another, and he finally got a phone call from a Plymouth fanatic in southern California. 

 

Bryan worked from a broad desk, so high he had to sit atop a brown, wooden kitchen stool, with a footrest bar a foot off the oil-stained concrete floor.  Meticulous was not too strong a description of the man or the array on the desk.  Small plastic boxes, only an arm’s length away, held parts for rather routine carburetor fixes.  Three rust streaked gray cabinets against the back wall held hundreds more parts and screws.  One glance at a carb and he’d know what he was looking for and seconds later he’d find it, except for the very occasional rarity which maybe took two seconds, and except for the Plymouth. 

 

A mountain of dog-eared parts catalogues, with dark soiled covers, dating back decades, sat in a stack on the floor by the desk.

 

Oh occasion, other necessities drew his attention, such as the day a friend of his, J.D. Collins, appeared with six large, over-stuffed garbage bags in the back of his scruffy, lime green pickup.

 

“Need some carb work?”

 

Collins shook his head and pointed to black bags.

 

“What’s in ‘em?”

 

“Shoes.”

 

 “Your wife cleaned out her closet?”

 

Collins ignored the jibe. “I bought a former shoe store and these are the refugees.”

 

“New shoes?”

 

“Yep, but cheap and uglier than my wife’s dog. Know where I can dump ‘em?”

 

“Tried the kennel?”

 

Collins gave him a look.

 

“I’ll get rid of them for you.”

 

They toted the bags into the shop and Collins drove away happy.

 

The next morning, Bryan put labels on the black bags.  FRED I HAVE TO LEAVE EARLY.   THESE ARE THE NEW SHOES YOU ASKED FOR.  He took the bags to the curb, went back in the shop, and waited and watched out of a smudged window.  He didn’t wait long.

 

A man Bryan didn’t recognize slowly approached, a skinny guy wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The guy stopped and looked both ways, his knees slightly bent like a runner waiting for the crack of the starting pistol.  A moment later another man showed up, then a third. All three looked around suspiciously, then grabbed the bags and ran off down the street.  Problem solved.

 

Another day, a businessman in suit and tie, drove up, and stayed in his car talking on his cell phone.  Bryan walked over.  “Can I help you?” The fellow rolled down the driver’s window, but continued an animated conversation, holding up a wait-a-minute finger.

 

Bryan waited, but the man didn’t stop.  Bryan walked back in the shop.

 

A few minutes later, Bryan walked back out to the car.  The man was still on the phone and once again held up a wait-a-minute finger.

 

Bryan went back in the shop, sat at his desk and opened a newspaper.

 

In about ten minutes, the man came in and started to speak.  Bryan held up a wait-a-minute finger and kept reading.  Eventually, the man left, never to return.

 

Weeks later, a Muslim guy pulled up in the driveway.  Bryan met him at his car and noticed the Koran on the dash.

 

“I need some help with this goddamned carburetor!  Jesus Christ!  This thing is awful!”

 

Bryan looked under the hood.  “Holy Allah!  If Mohammed saw this he’d eat a pig!”

 

“HEY!  YOU INSULTED MY RELIGION!”

 

“Well, you insulted mine!”

 

The Muslim guy took a deep breath.  “…..I guess you’re right, I did.”

 

They ended up shaking hands and becoming friends.

 

On another day, the owner of the shop came in on Bryan’s day off and rearranged things, including Bryan’s desk.  Bryan was livid!

 

“Do you know where the float valves are for Ford carburetors?”

 

“Uhhh….no.”

 

“How about the gaskets for a four barreled Chrysler?”

 

No answer.

 

“Well now, neither do I!  Don’t ever touch ANYTHING in this shop again!”  The owner never did.

 

But, the days of carburetors were becoming more and more rare.  Soon, Bryan only rebuilt one a month and then it dwindled to one every two months.  The owner sold the shop.

 

Even then, Bryan couldn’t stop.  For a while, word spread that there was a guy who still rebuilt carbs from a workshop at his house.

 

When I helped his widow clean out his home workshop, all of Bryan’s carburetor catalogues and mounds of plastic boxes of parts were all there, reminders of a man dedicated to perfection and friendship, and who until the last awaited one more car to pull up in his driveway, and offer him a carb to rebuild.