Telemurdering
by
George R. Lasher
At first, the cold metal bars and gray walls of his cell seemed like something out of a bad dream; a dream from which Marine Private, Nathan Piper couldn't awaken. Shot while trying to save his friends, Jerry Ehrlich and Little Joe Thundercloud, he had been taken prisoner by the Viet Cong.
His friends had been with him when he regained consciousness, but then the Commies gave him some kind of injection. When he came to, again, Jerry and Little Joe were gone. His skull throbbed and he ached to know if they were alive, but everything had gone fuzzy after taking that bullet to the head. It wouldn’t be long before his captors would change their interrogation tactics from simple, polite questioning to will-testing torture. He knew it. He was prepared for it. But he hadn’t been prepared for these mind-altering drugs that distorted reality as he sat on the hard prison cot.
At times it seemed like he'd been arrested rather than captured; arrested for killing one of those Viet Cong bastards. Yes, he did it. He choked the life out of the son-of-a-bitch. He'd do it again, given the chance - without hesitation, without regret. Hell, this was war, wasn’t it? Nathan heard the enemy discussing his little brother, Jeff. How would they know anything about him? Jeff lived with Mom and Dad, back in the states, playing little league baseball and going to school. Nathan wondered if he'd ever see his family again. He wondered if his fiancee, his darling Lindy, had been told of his capture and how she might react.
The interrogators mentioned another name several times: Paul Grand. That name rang a bell. It made him feel confused, tense and sick inside. Paul Grand, had that been the name of the man he killed? How could that be? That wasn’t a Vietnamese name! Nathan closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. When he reopened them, his mouth hung open in shock. If he was a POW in Vietnam, why were his Uncle Bob and Aunt Nellie looking in through those bars?
A tall, thin man with a bushy, gray mustache, wearing a cowboy hat and a gray business suit stood next to Uncle Bob. Uncle Bob said the man promised to testify on his behalf; said his name was Sam Stetson. Now, who the hell was Sam Stetson? Nathan didn’t know anyone by that name, or did he?
Chapter 2
One week earlier:
“Via con Dios, mi amigo,” Sam said, with a wry grin and a tip of his gray, felt hat to the impatient Hispanic teenager who honked in vain behind him. Nobody's life would be appreciably altered in a positive way if he turned left, right now. He'd be risking an accident with the large number and speed of the oncoming vehicles. Common sense suggested that he wait a few more seconds until a sufficient break in the traffic allowed him to safely cross and enter the old Richburg Shopping Center parking lot. At times, well, most of the time lately, he felt it necessary to verbally coax his classic, robin’s egg blue and white ’57 Chevy. The old boy desperately needed a tune up. “Hang on Methuselah, here comes that openin’.”
When he pressed down on the accelerator, the Chevy lurched forward, but faltered as it began to cross the oncoming lanes of traffic. Sputtering and almost stalling, it barely made the left turn across Avenue H. Methuselah backfired as he limped into the parking lot of what had once been the most visited shopping center in town.
Long ago, Safeway sold out to Kroger’s, who had then moved, leaving a long, vacant stretch of retail space. The remaining stores were the Firestone dealer on one side and a Merle Norman cosmetics store, way down on the other. Space for lease signs went up and stayed up, as businesses moved closer to the new subdivisions popping up along the Southwest Freeway, which led to Houston.
Coming to a stop in front of the Firestone store Sam spoke to the car again. “You just had to make it interestin’ didn’t ya?” he scolded, in a drawl that branded him as Texas born and bred. “Ever since I went and added that dang air conditioner to ya, ya haven’t run right. But we’re fixin’ to get ya a full blown engine overhaul today that oughtta have ya purrin’ like a kitten and howlin’ like a wolf.” He patted the steering wheel and turned off the ignition. After removing the keys he locked the dashboard glove box, which couldn't be opened with the ignition key. No sense in chancing Mr. Mechanic stumbling onto his backup revolver. After sliding the ignition key off his key ring, he got out, closed and locked the door, and strolled into the tire dealership.
The Firestone Symphony Orchestra greeted him, performing a composition produced by powered torque wrenches, air compressors, and clanging metal parts bouncing off of the concrete floor. The sounds of the auto repair opus floated in through the opened back door of the shop as he waited for an attendant to appear. Before long, a short young fellow came in, dressed in a clean uniform with the name, Cody, embroidered over one pocket. After entering through the door that lead to the repair bays, he stopped behind the counter. With an expression that revealed old-fashioned, sincere interest, he asked, “Been waiting long? Sorry, I didn’t see you come in. What can we do for you?”
“My name’s Sam. I called yesterday and made an appointment to have some engine work done this mornin’. Is the feller here who said he has the parts and the mechanical 'know how' to make an old ‘283’ purr like a kitten?”
“That would be me, I’m Cody.” Smiling, the young man extended his small hand, adorned, Sam noticed, with the hard working mechanic’s fashion trademark, dirt and grease under the fingernails. Sam shook the hand without hesitation.
Cody pointed and asked, “Is that your Chevy parked out front?”
Sam asked, “Should I have pulled him around back where the stalls are? I didn’t think about that. I can move him if —"
“No, don’t worry about it. Let’s get the paperwork Done.” Cody reached under the counter and produced a work order form. “I’ll pull it around in a minute. Do you have the keys?”
“Would’a been kind’a hard to get here without ‘em,” Sam said with a crooked smile as he slid the ignition key across the counter.
“Okay Sam, what’s your last name?”
“Stetson.”
“Like the hat?” Cody wondered.
Sam tipped his hat, smiled that crooked smile again, and said, “Smart lad. And if you’re about to inquire as to my address it’s 326 Jefferson, here in Richburg." Sam offered his cell phone number when asked, but questioned its importance, saying he'd be sitting in the waiting area for an hour or two, reading the paper and watching TV until he could convince a friend into comin’ by to bail him out and take him to lunch. "After that," he added, "I’ll be back to finish out my time until you have him ready for me, warden.”
“I need you to okay this work agreement,” Cody said, pushing the paperwork across the counter. “I, uh, notice you refer to your car in the masculine sense. Most people think of their car as a she. Why’s your car a guy?”
Sam leaned across the counter, signed the paperwork, and motioned for Cody to lean closer so he wouldn’t have to speak up and potentially offend anyone. With their noses no more than a foot apart, Sam said, “Cody, Methuselah may be old, but with your skill and my check book, he’s gonna be as potent as a pubescent porno star. Sometimes in my business I have to do some fast, dangerous drivin’ and, well, let’s just say I don’t want to be runnin’ around in a wimpy, pussymobile when that happens.” Sam smiled, looking right pleased with himself, and twisted the left corner of his bushy, graying Mustache. He slid the paperwork back across the counter, straightened up, and leaned back.
“And what business did you say you were in?” Cody asked, an amused look on his face.
“I didn’t,” Sam replied, smiling again as he tipped his hat and headed for the customer waiting area. He sat down next to an elderly hispanic gentleman on an old, black, cracked leather sectional sofa and picked up a copy of the Houston Chronicle. On the front page of the Monday, October 20 edition a story that looked like it might affect a friend of his caught his eye. The headline read, “New Telemarketing Laws Reducing Nuisance.”
I’ll bet that’s got old Jim fit to be tied, he thought. Jim was a friend of his who lived in Richburg and worked as a phone room manager for a security company in Houston. He was the Uncle of Rachel Evans, who was Sam’s 17-year-old daughter’s best friend. Cindy Stetson, Sam’s daughter, was a senior in high school who worked as a waitress in the evenings at the Old West Steakhouse on Avenue I. As he fished for his cell phone in the pockets of his suit jacket, Sam thought, Let’s see how old Jim is doin’, seeing as how he had a little time to kill and hadn’t spoken to Jim in a couple of months.
When he flipped his phone open the automated female voice asked, “Who would you like to call?” Sam answered, “Jim Patton,” and waited while the voice repeated the name and then said, “Connecting,” after which he heard the sound of the Patton phone ringing. After a couple of rings, Jim’s wife, Becky, answered the phone.
“Hello.”
Sam asked, “Would this be Becky?”
“Yes, who’s this?” she asked, sounding curious to know who this stranger might be that seemed to know her.
“Becky, I know you probably don’t remember me, but this is Sam Stetson, I’m a friend of your husband and I’m Cindy Stetson’s Dad. You know her through your niece, Rachel. The two of them work together at that steakhouse on avenue I. I just hadn’t had a chance to shoot the breeze with Jim for a while. I met you guys at the Safe Sentry Security Christmas banquet last year and he and I run into each other every once in a while at the courthouse. Would he be in this mornin’, by any chance?”
“Well,” she answered, “he’s shaving right now. Let me see if he can talk.” Sam heard her telling Jim that Cindy Stetson’s Dad, was on the phone and wanted to talk to him.
Jim said “Let me wash this shaving cream off my face.” He gave a final glance into the mirror at his neatly trimmed, silver goatee, picked up the phone from the counter where his wife had laid it and said, “Sam Stetson, what the hell are you doing calling me at eight fifteen in the morning? I haven’t heard from you in a coon’s age! In fact, I didn’t even know you had my phone number.”
Sam smiled and said, “Well, I’m sittin’ here at the Firestone tire shop this mornin’ waitin’ for ‘em to do some work on my car, and don’t go takin’ offense at this, but I ran out of productive things to do, so I thought I’d give you a call. Besides, I saw this article in the Chronicle about the new telemarketin’ laws and wondered if it was messin’ you up.”
“What are they doing to that old car of yours, Sam,” Jim kidded, “Calling a priest in to administer the last rites?”
“Now listen, Methuselah may be old, but at least he’s an American car, my friend. When I cuss my car it understands me. When you cuss your Toyota. . ." Sam paused for a second and then asked, "Are you still drivin’ that red Camry?”
“I am.”
“I figured you were. Anyway, when you cuss that car it don't understand you, and if it says anythin’ back when the day comes that you’re broke down on the side of the Southwest Freeway, it’s probably gonna be somethin’ like, “Remember Hiroshima!”
Jim laughed and said, “Hey, Becky and I are going to have lunch at Wylie’s Cafeteria today at eleven. If you'll still be at the tire shop around that time why don’t you let us come by and take you to lunch with us?”
“My, you are a perceptive devil, Mr. Patton,” Sam drawled. “Here I was, all prepared to beg, but seein’ as how you’ve asked me, I can avoid that loss of dignity and I won’t have to waste my cell phone minutes huntin’ down someone else to play good Samaritan and take me to lunch.”
“What?” Jim chuckled. “So you figured I’d be easy to talk into taking you to lunch, huh? Need a helping hand, Call old easy Jim, is that it?”
Sam responded by saying, “Actually, believe it or not, I just called to shoot the shit. I'd really planned on callin’ someone else about lunch today, but since you said you and the Mrs. were gonna be in the area it suddenly seemed like a pretty good fit. I don’t know if easy is the right word to use in describing you, here, Jim. That sounds kind’a degradin’ doesn’t it? I like the word, accommodatin’ so much better, wouldn’t you agree?”
Jim agreed that accommodating did sound better, and Said, “We’ll be by to pick you up about five minutes before eleven.”
Sam said, “Thanks partner,” and flipped his cell phone closed. He got up and walked to the glass front door, through which he saw Cody getting in Methuselah. He swung the door open and shouted, “Don’t go puttin’ some loud, rumbling,’ glass pack mufflers on him. I don’t want to be wakin’ up the neighborhood if I’m comin’ home late or leavin’ early, you hear? I want Methuselah to be silent, but deadly, like a quiet fart in a crowded elevator, you understand?” He realized what he had just said might be considered crude by people of a more refined nature, and looked around, relieved to see the old hispanic gentleman had nodded off to sleep.
Cody waved and laughed as he started Methuselah up. It idled roughly until he gunned it a couple of times. It sputtered, coughed and almost died, and then roared. Cody leaned out the driver’s side window and yelled, “You’ve got carburetor trouble! A Holley four-barrel ought’a fix her right up!"
Sam yelled back, “Him, Cody. I told ya Methuselah is a he. Don’t you go emasculatin’ him right here in public!”
Cody waved again and shouted, “Sorry, I forgot. Anyway, about that four-barrel, be aware that they suck gas if you’ve got a lead foot. I’ll take a look at the fuel pump too.” Sam waved and made an O.K. sign as Cody backed up to pull the car around to the proper work bay.
Sam turned around and went back to the seat where he had been reading the paper. As the old man started to snore, Sam studied the article about the new telemarketing laws and found that people were suing left and right, and winning, over being called when they had signed up to be placed on a special, national no call list. Over six million, nationwide (not counting additional millions that had previously paid to be included on statewide no-call lists), had responded in hopes of arresting the frustration of multiple telemarketing calls interrupting meals in the evenings.
The new mandates seemed like a good thing at first, until you contemplated the complicated issues of unemployment among uneducated, but otherwise honest, hard-working individuals and the increased backlog of cases in the courts, as opportunistic individuals took advantage of the new laws to sue the innocently inept and ill-prepared, as well as fraudulent telemarketing businesses. What had at one time been a more cost efficient marketing method to reach potential customers than advertising on radio, TV, or in the newspapers was being squeezed out of existence.
Sam shook his head as he read on. He knew Jim took a lot of pride in his department, making sure his employees were properly trained and fully understood the laws. Jim went to the County Clerk’s office five days a week getting the latest new home owner and new business information from “Deeds of Trust” and “Doing Business As” documents. When he got to work each day in Houston, he and his staff would turn the names and addresses into phone numbers via directory assistance and would then call the new homeowners and new business owners, setting up appointments for the field sales consultants. This method cost a lot of money, but yielded better results than buying lists of new homeowners that were several months old before they were received. If people were going to get an alarm system they usually did it within the first week or two of occupying their new home. Security companies like the one Jim worked for were willing to spend the money, up front, to set up long term contracts, which provided a steady flow of recurrent monthly revenue for monitoring alarm systems.
~ ~ ~
At Wylie’s cafeteria Becky Patton pulled a small plastic bottle out of her purse and squirted a healthy shot of the pinkish-orange colored liquid it contained into the glass of ice water in front of her.
Curious, Sam pointed to the bottle and asked, “Mrs. Patton, are we tippin’ the bottle before noon today? That’s not some kind of booze you’re squrtin’ in there, is it?”
“Oh sure,” Becky answered capriciously, “Jim and I always have a little shot with lunch.” The twinkle in her eye made Sam think she was kidding, but then again. . .
“It’s Lipton peach-mango flavoring,” Jim butted in, seeing the funny look on Sam’s face. “We started using flavorings with tea some time ago and then decided that we might as well just skip the caffeine altogether because the stuff tastes great in water, with Equal and lemon.”
“Actually, Jim is too cheap to spring for the price of tea,” Becky said, winking playfully and nudging her husband in the ribs.
Smiling, Sam replied, “I suspected as much.”
An inquisitive sort, Becky always wanted to know everyone’s business, especially if they had anything to do with her husband, her family, or her friends. Her hair, in contrast to her husband’s silver mane, remained predominantly brown with just a few gray insurgents, making her look much younger than the man to whom she had been hitched for three decades. Continuing to dominate the conversation, she said, “Sam, I vaguely remember meeting you last year at the Safe Sentry banquet, but what were you doing there? I thought it was strictly for Safe Sentry employees.”
“I don’t blame you for not rememberin’, Mrs. Patton,” Sam replied, “but I was the keynote speaker for the event. Some folks think I’m a hypnotist, judgin’ by the number of people I usually manage to put to sleep, but hey, it paid two hundred bucks and I got a free meal, so what the heck, I gave it my best shot.”
“Sam is a highly sought after Private Investigator, Becky,” Jim said, “and a former homicide detective. What was it Sam, twenty-five years on the force?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m highly sought after Jim, but as to twenty-five years on the force, I'll admit to that,” Sam agreed. “After a quarter of a century I took my pension and decided that the law turned loose, and kept me from catchin’, almost as many criminals as I actually caught. Here’s an example of what’s happenin’ these days . . . call me old fashioned, but in my book if a crack cocaine addict takes another man’s life who didn’t do anything to him other than change lanes without signalin’, it ought to be a punishable offense. But I just saw a trial with that exact scenario where the addict got off with probation.” Sam shook his head in disgust and said, “I’m sorry, but I just can’t abide that kind of justice.”
“I read about that in the Fort Bend Herald,” Becky said, spearing a forkful of green beans.
As Sam cut another slice of chicken fried steak, Jim asked, “Sam, have you spoken to Jerry Dobbins lately?” Sam was just inserting the steak into his mouth and motioned that it would be a moment before he could answer. As he chewed, Jim added, “Jerry’s a great guy isn’t he?” Sam nodded vigorously while he continued chewing.
“He’s the branch manager, isn’t he?” Becky asked. I remember him, what a nice guy. He and his wife sat right across from us at the banquet last year. When they had the Karaoke competition he sang Harvest Moon with you, Jim, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Jim answered, rolling his eyes, “and we haven’t lived it down yet.”
By now, Sam had swallowed and was ready to speak up Again. He said, "The thing that sticks out in my mind about the Kareoke competition was some feller doin' the worst Elvis Presley imitation I’ve ever heard. Now that was memorable, in a painful sort of way.”
“That was Dean Perry. He’s not with us anymore,” Jim looked down, feigning regret.
“What’d you do? Fire him for being such a bad singer?”
“He’s headlining in Vegas now,” Jim answered. Becky laughed. Sam’s grin was big enough to almost expose his whole mouth, which wasn’t easy to do with that huge mustache of his. “No, I’m just kidding,” Jim said, “he’s still with us. He calls businesses in the mornings. Fortunately he doesn’t have to sing to them.”
“Very fortunate,” Sam agreed, as he shoveled a healthy portion of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
“More coffee, Sam?” Marilyn, the personable, red haired lady that pushed the tea and coffee cart around, was asking the question. Chatting with the lunch crowd was her favorite part of the job. She was a real fixture at Wylie’s, always making sure everybody was taken care of. She took some pictures out of a pocket in her green apron and placed them on the table.
“Those are from my wedding,” she said, beaming.
Sam picked up the pictures and began to look at them. “That’s a mighty purty dress, Marilyn. Was that store bought, or handed down in your family?”
“I rented it,” Marilyn answered. “It didn’t make no sense to buy one or get someone to make one, since I done been married before, and besides, I’m only gonna wear it once.”
“Who’s that young feller in this picture with you, Marilyn?” Sam asked, without realizing it was the groom. “Is that your new husband’s son?”
“No,” Marilyn said, taking the mistake in stride, “That’s my husband. He’s kind’a young.”
“Well, I sure am relieved,” Sam said. “For a minute there I was thinking the groom’s son was taking your garter off of you!”
Blushing, Marilyn reached for the picture and said, “I didn’t mean to put that one in there,” she laughed, nervously, “it shows a little more of me than Mr. McTaggert would like, I think.” Mr. McTaggert was the manager at Wylie’s. A hard working, decent guy, who had taken a floundering cafeteria and had changed it into a really nice place to eat. Marilyn turned around to see if he was watching and said, “I gotta move on. If Mr. McTaggert catches me spending too much time at one table he lets me hear about it.”
Sam handed back the rest of the pictures along with a ten-dollar bill. “Good luck to you and your new husband, Marilyn,” he said. As she walked away, Sam asked Becky, “Wouldn’t you say Marilyn is at least in her late forties?”
Becky said, “Yeah, sure, or early to mid fifties.”
Sam asked again, “Wouldn’t you say her new husband is in his twenties?”
Becky answered, “The other day when Marilyn showed us the pictures, I think I remember her saying he was twenty-eight.”
Sam turned to Jim, shook his head, smiled and said, “Love conquers all, right Jim?”
“Yeah,” Becky agreed, “How else can you explain Jim ending up with me? Talk about Beauty and the Beast.”
“Now sweetheart,” Jim joked, patting her hand, “You’re not that much of a beast.”
“How long have you guys been married?” Sam inquired as he finished his meal and dabbed at his mustache with his green napkin.
“Thirty years, Sam,” Jim replied, putting his arm around his wife and giving her a squeeze. “Last year we eclipsed the Patton marriage longevity record, previously held by my Mom and Dad, who were married twenty-nine years. My Dad died of a heart attack at the age of 51, shortly after their twenty-ninth anniversary.”
“And how old are you, Jim?” Sam asked.
“I’m 51, Sam.”
“Same age your Dad was when he died, huh?”
“Yeah. I always knew I’d make it to 51, but I’ve never thought I’ll see 52.”
“Oh, brother, here we go,” Becky lamented, shaking her head.
Sam glanced at Becky quizzically and then back at Jim. “Now why would you say that, Jim?”
“Well, when I was 14, my Dad brought home this game for me from The Amazing Kreskin, the mind reading guy, who had appeared on my Dad’s morning TV show.”
Sam leaned forward and nodded, “I remember you mentioning at the courthouse one day that your Dad was Sid Patton, the channel 11 TV personality. Now, what about this game from Kreskin?”
“I remember this like it was yesterday. I opened the box up and placed the game board on the floor of my bedroom. It was kind of like a Ouija board except that it had a chain with a white, plastic, tear shaped pendant on the end. Well the deal was that you asked it a question, and if you held the chain totally still over the middle of the board it would swing towards the answer, spelling it out one letter or one number at a time. Sitting there on my floor, I asked this thing what would be the name of the girl I would marry. And it spelled out B-E-C-K-Y. Now at that time the only girl I knew named Becky was a girl named Becky Burkhalter, whom I absolutely hated, and in all fairness she didn’t think much of me, either. My first thought was that the game was a crock, but I asked it one more question that day. How old will I be when I die? It didn’t hesitate. It went right to 51. I never got that game out again, I guess it kind of scared me, but years later when my Dad died at the age of 51 I remembered it. When I fell in love with this lovely lady and married her, I remembered it again. Now maybe it got confused and the 51 was meant for my Dad, but that isn’t what I asked it.”
Sam broke in at this point, saying, “You know, I used to picture you as a purty smart feller, but I have to say you are quickly erasing that picture, amigo.”
“I know,” Jim said, “that’s what everyone tells me, but I believe it’s gonna happen. I’m not afraid, I’m just curious as to when it’s going to happen.”
Sam asked, “Do you think you still have that game somewhere?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“There’s a big football weekend comin’ up. It’d be kind of nice to have some real insight from the spirit world.”
Back at the Firestone shop, Sam hopped out of Jim’s Toyota and thanked him and Becky for springing him from the customer waiting area and taking him to lunch. Sam had paid for everybody’s meal over Jim’s mild protest. Sam reasoned, “Since you both had water instead of that exorbitantly expensive Wylie’s tea,” he kidded, “I figured it wouldn’t break me, besides, I had a good time. Since you said you’d pay next time, Jim, let’s do this again soon,” he suggested, and then added, “preferably before your 52nd birthday comes up,” he winked. Before going back inside the tire shop he handed one of his business cards to Becky and one to Jim. Tipping the brim of his hat, he said, “Please call me, if I may ever be of service, or if you know of anyone that needs a man of my meager talents.”
~ ~ ~
As the traffic crawled along highway 59, on his way to work that afternoon Jim asked himself, “Why did I have to go and tell that story about the Kreskin game? Now Sam thinks I’m a loony and, come to think of it, maybe I am. At least that way I fit in with the pack of loonies I manage.”
When Jim reached the office, Donnie and Max, his top two telemarketers, were waiting for Him. Donnie was a rail thin, cranky, divorced, 58-year-old former Dresser industries warehouse foreman who had hurt his back lifting heavy crates and had to have a sit-down job with decent benefits. When he stopped complaining, which was rare, he was a damn good telemarketer with a gift for speaking with customers and listening to them, rather than just throwing a canned speech at them. “Jim,” Donnie complained, “You’ve got to do something about Dean.”
“Jim sat down at his desk, folded his hands on top of it, smiled, sighed, and said, “Well at least you let me get in the door before you hit me with a problem.” Resigned to promptly handling whatever was going on, he asked, “What has he done this time?”
With a grim look on his face, Donnie pointed and said, “Go look at the coffee bar and you’ll see,”
Jim grunted slightly as he got back up and said, “Okay, I’ll go look, but how about a hint as to what I’m looking for?”
Max said, “You’ll know when you see it.” The look on Max’s face was one that told Jim he was supposed to be disgusted by whatever he found. Max was a short, round, bald, bearded guy, with a New York accent, whose feelings were easily hurt. Pointing towards the coffee bar, he said, “I just can’t work under these conditions, Jim, you have to do something.”
“Okay, Max, take it easy.” With just the slightest hint of sarcasm, he said, “I hope I can do something about whatever this is, because we’d sure hate to lose you. Would it be possible, while I attend to your request, for you guys to start working on this material that I picked up at the courthouse today?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Max replied, “but you just gotta do—”
“Gimme a chance,” Jim pleaded. He turned and headed for the coffee bar. What he saw there confirmed the fact that Max and Donnie weren’t exaggerating, it was enough to turn anyone’s stomach. It was blood. Blood on the coffee filters, blood on the sugar dispenser jar, smeared, dried, blood on the coffee pot, and guess what, that wasn’t cherry flavored jelly smeared on that donut, or that one, or that one. Jim wondered, as his stomach began to feel a little queasy, had someone just been stabbed in the office, shortly before he arrived, and spent their last few minutes staggering around the coffee bar, fixing themselves one last snack before going to meet their maker? He remembered Donnie and Max had implicated Dean as the perpetrator of this ghastly scene, so he headed for the suspect’s desk.
There he sat, looking as contented as a pig in mud, a nearly bald man in his early fifties whose few remaining strands of hair were always in major disarray. In one hand he held a phone receiver to his ear, patiently waiting for a potential customer to answer. In the other he held a cup of coffee. There was a half-eaten donut on his desk, sitting on a blood spattered napkin. Around his index finger, on the hand holding the coffee cup, was a loosely wrapped, blood soaked piece of gauze, saturated to the point that it had dripped onto the desk and everything that Dean had touched. Dean looked up calmly as Jim approached, and said, “Hey, brother Jim, how’s the world treating you?”
Jim looked at Dean in awe, wondering how anyone could be so oblivious of the world around them, so completely unaware of what constituted unsanitary and improper behavior in a place of business? How could he not know what he had done? “Dean,” Jim began, trying his best to sound nonchalant, “you look like you must have cut your finger pretty good, there. Should we fill out an accident report?”
Dean looked confused for a minute, and then focused on his injured finger. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “but it’s okay now. It’s almost stopped bleeding.” He gave up on waiting for an answer on the call he had made and hung up. He squeezed the finger, producing a new globule of blood, which hung, wiggling at the end of the gauze-covered finger for a moment, before dropping and splashing onto the napkin.
Wincing, Jim asked, “How’d you injure yourself, Dean?”
Dean reached down into his desk drawer and came up with an old, rusted letter opener. “Cleaning the dirt out from under my fingernails. I went a little too deep, I guess, and drew blood — no big deal. It’s a little sore, but I’m okay.”
“Yeah, well, it may not be a big deal to you, Dean, but I’d appreciate it if you would come with me for a minute. I have something I’d like you to see.”
Dean got up, and traipsed along behind Jim to the coffee bar, where Jim stopped and motioned to the once pristine area that now resembled a set for a “Nightmare on Elm street” sequel. Seeing that Dean was standing there, and evidently not getting the point that he was desperately trying to make, Jim asked, “Dean, Did we have a visit from Freddy Krueger, by any chance, shortly before I got here today, or could this be a mess that you caused?”
Again Dean looked confused, and then, thank you lord, someone turned on the light. He suddenly seemed to understand!
“Looks like I left a little mess, huh?” he admitted.
“Well Dean, you know how squeamish some people can be about blood.” Jim was prepared to ask Dean to clean up the mess, when he spied a new drop of blood dangling precariously from the tip of the injured finger. He decided the whole area could end up looking even worse, and figured he’d better just clean it up himself. “Dean, do me a favor, would you?” Jim asked.
“Want me to clean it up?” Dean asked, perfectly willing to make his boss happy although he certainly didn’t see anything worth fussing over. Reaching for a napkin, the large drop of blood that had been threatening to fall from his finger, finally did, and splashed on the white tile floor.
Revolted, Jim said, “No, I’d worry about you keeling over from loss of blood. I’ll take care of this, but the next time you decide to slice a piece of your flesh, try to resist the urge to do any finger painting in the coffee bar area, okay?” Dean shrugged and headed back to his desk while Jim got busy cleaning up the mess. As he watched Dean walk away, he imagined a little trail of dust being left in his wake, like the dirty little kid named Pigpen in the classic “Peanuts” comic strips by Charles Schultz. Cleaning the coffee bar, (this was what managers were supposed to be doing, wasn’t it) his stomach lurched as he imagined all kinds of infectious, potentially fatal, germs, parasites, and viruses crawling up his hands and arms. With Dean’s exhibited disdain for proper hygiene he couldn’t help but think about exposure to A.I.D.S. and a host of other diseases. He found himself wishing for a surgical mask and a pair of rubber gloves. Before he finished, another of his frequent challenges confronted him, which made him feel dirty in a different way. It was Paul Grand.
Paul looked like a sick Neanderthal hippie. He wasn’t particularly tall, or big. Quite the contrary, he was thin, and frail. His black hair swept back from his bulging forehead and flowed past his shoulders. There was something not quite right about those deceitful, sunken in, gray, eyes that stared out at you, seeming hopelessly confused, and at the same time, scheming to get the better of you.
Paul stammered when he felt pressured, or unsure of what he was saying, yet when you listened to him speak, you began to wonder if he might be doing it, sometimes, on purpose, to gain sympathy. He frequently claimed to be “slow,” (especially when asked to do something new that he didn’t want to do) and that, as a child, he'd been placed in classes for children with major learning disabilities. But Jim noticed each time he told stories of his childhood or his disability, or illnesses, the stories would change. His handwriting, always atrocious, worsened and slowed considerably if he had to fill out a form having anything to do with insurance benefits, or withholding amounts on his taxes. Invariably, he would turn to someone else and ask him or her to fill out the form for him. He would claim that he might make a mistake that could cost him his benefits, which he had to keep for his wife and their baby. He would claim his hepatitis (which was supposedly killing him) made him shake too much, but if you saw him writing at another time it would look appreciably better. When asked about it he would say he was having “a good day,” and would promptly begin writing poorly again.
Jim had no doubts about Paul being ill. Yes, something was wrong with Paul Grand, all right, but whether it was emotional, mental, or physical, Jim didn’t care. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t like to see people sick or suffering, but he hadn’t hired Paul, he had inherited him. He was a major pain in the ass and an embarrassment. Whatever problem he had, it was probably way past the point of being treatable.
Today Paul arrived at work with a horrible bruise on the left side of his face and what looked like claw marks on the right. “My God, Paul,” Jim asked, shocked at the sight of his employee. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Giselle hit me with a fr-frying pan last night,” he answered, as if it weren’t that unusual.
“Hit you with a frying pan?” Jim asked, “What the heck did you do to deserve that?”
“I di-di-didn’t bring home enough money.”
“So she hit you with a frying pan? And what about those scratches?”
Paul shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, we had a pretty good fight, and then the b-baby started to cry, and wouldn’t shut up, so Giselle bl-bl-blew some crack smoke into its face, and I tried to st-stop her.”
Jim had heard plenty of Paul’s lies, but this was just too much. He had met Giselle once, at the company banquet last year. An attractive, articulate, petite brunette, part Vietnamese and part French, there was only one explanation for a good looking young girl staying with a misfit like Paul. . . drugs. It had to be.
“Jesus, Paul, don’t tell me she did that. That can screw up a kid for life!”
“Giselle doesn’t c-care,” Paul said. “When she doesn’t have enough money for her drugs, she ju-just goes wild. Things have been a little slow at the modeling studio this past week, and she was on her p-p-period the week before, so she missed a few days…”
“Wait a minute, Paul,” Jim said, shocked again. “Did you just say she works at a modeling studio? I thought you had said your wife was a model?”
“Yeah, well, Giselle has been in some ma-ma-magazines. You want to see some of the pictures? She even made a p-p-porno out in California before I met her. She has a copy of it at home, I can bring it up here if you—”
“Paul, stop it!”
“What,” Paul asked? You could see his amusement. He loved to shock people. “I tried to get Donnie and Max to go by and g-give her some business, last week,” he said, “be-be-because I saw this check was going to be too sm-small. You should go by, she’ll g-g-give you a g-good bl—”
“That’s enough, Paul. I don’t want to hear any more about your wife’s job. I’m only worried about yours, now get to your desk and make some calls.”
Paul headed for his desk while Jim retreated to his office. Jim didn’t believe in keeping people he didn’t feel good about. There had been times he had helped employees find a different job if he felt they might be disruptive or didn't possess the required skills to work in his department. Jim’s old rule was, if he couldn’t feel good about putting his hand on an employee’s shoulder and saying, “This is so and so, we work together,” then he usually found a way to convince them to pack up and leave. Well, maybe he wouldn’t put his hand on Dean’s shoulder, but other than his hygiene problem he was a darn good worker. Jim didn’t feel good about saying he worked with Paul. He wanted to fire him, but one thing bothered him about that. If Paul lost his benefits it would severely affect his family. Jim found it difficult to believe the things Paul said about Giselle. She had seemed like such a bright, personable young lady when they met at the company banquet. But again, why would such an attractive girl stay with such a loser, if not for drugs?
At his desk, Jim wondered why the previous manager ever allowed Paul to go full time, making him eligible for benefits? Then he remembered. The previous manager had been fired because of a drug problem. Paul may have been his supplier.
Blowing crack smoke in a baby’s face, Jim thought, surely she didn’t do that.
~ ~ ~
By seven-thirty that evening, Giselle was having a hard time controlling the Acura, S.U.V. that she borrowed from Secret, a friend of hers who also worked at the “Jade Pillow” modeling studio. She'd bought a couple of rocks from a friend of Secret’s, and had lit up as soon as she got back to the car. “Damn Central Standard Time! I hate it when the time changes!” she cursed, “I hate it when it gets dark this early!” The stream of attention-grabbing neon lights from businesses on either side, combined with the confusing cluster of taillights, oncoming headlights and overhead freeway lights pulsed and glowed with a powerfully hypnotic, drug-induced intensity that was at the same time both beautiful and frightening.
Blown away as she hurtled along, weaving in and out of traffic at just over eighty in the middle of six northbound lanes on the Southwest Freeway, she admitted, “Holy shit, I’m so stoned, I don’t know if I can make it home!” Seeing the sign announcing the approach of the Fondren exit she jerked the steering wheel too hard to the right, causing her to momentarily lose control. Fighting the wheel as she alternately fishtailed into lanes on her left and right, a red Dodge truck, also traveling at well above the 65 mile per hour speed limit, had to take extreme measures. It slammed on its brakes and swerved so quickly that it almost hit the outer guard rail. Had the driver of the truck not regained control, the ensuing potentially major, and conceivably fatal, accident could have involved a half-dozen, or possibly more, cars.
Trembling, with sweat trickling down from her temples, Giselle took the exit and stayed in the far left lane of the service road, making a U-turn, barely missing two cars as she accelerated between them after emerging from under the concrete overpass. She zoomed up an incline into the parking lot of a stop-n-rob, and stomped the brakes, screeching to a halt less than a foot away from an old, primer-gray-and-rust colored Datsun.
Alerted by the sound of squealing tires, the store owner, Rahib Ishmael, whose Datsun had just narrowly avoided destruction, anxiously peered out from behind his newly constructed, bullet-proof, glass counter enclosure. He wondered if this crazy driver would come running into his store, brandishing a gun and demanding all of the money in the register. The last time he got robbed, just three months ago, he experienced the helpless feeling of staring down the barrel of a large handgun and decided right then that he would have this new safety enclosure constructed, even if it took every last penny he had saved. He had been glad that his wife wasn't on duty at the time, but regretted that it hadn't been her lazy brother.
No, it wouldn’t be the first time he'd been robbed if that was what was about to happen. And though he didn’t know it, it wouldn’t have been the first robbery for the driver of the black Acura S.U.V.
Giselle didn't have armed robbery on her mind at the moment. Running a hand through her silky black hair, she thought, Damn, I gotta get back and get some more of that shit before they run out! She checked her purse to determine how much money she had left. She counted out 12, twenty dollar bills, and smiled. Two hundred and forty bucks might be enough for her to get the whole cookie instead of having to settle for a few crumbs. Sixty dollars of the money was supposed to be for groceries, including the baby’s formula, and another hundred needed to be set aside for the rent, but she'd let Paul worry about that. If he wanted her to stick around, he'd better start coming through.
Why crumb myself? she reasoned. A whole cookie, cut up, would be worth close to two grand on the street. Lying to herself, she rationalized, I can sell what I don’t smoke, and make the grocery and rent money back with no problem, but she knew without a doubt she would smoke every bit. Paul had a bad week at work last week, coupled with the fact that she'd missed most of last week at the Jade Pillow due to her period. As a result they didn’t have enough money to take care of her needs and life’s other mundane necessities. Still deceiving herself about selling what she didn’t smoke, she figured she was doing the smart thing.
Satisfied with her logic, she started the borrowed vehicle and backed out of the parking lot, narrowly missing an oncoming Buick with a yellow sign in the back window that declared, “Baby on Board,” and a bumper sticker that admonished you to “Honk if you Love Jesus.” The close call didn’t faze her in the least. There was a gleam in her glazed eyes as she headed back for that cookie.
~ ~ ~
A different kind of gleam shone in the eyes of Sam Stetson as he prepared to pull out onto the very road he and his ailing car had barely made it across that morning. “Okay Methuselah,” he pleaded, “Cody just spent all day puttin’ in a new camshaft, carburetor, and fuel pump. He beefed up the suspension and put on four new, fat, tires that look like they belong on the Daytona speedway. I don’t mind tellin’ ya that it wasn’t cheap, but Cody said this had to be done if I wanted you to turn into one mean son-of-a-bitch. I see a break in the stream of traffic comin’ up, so show me what you got.” He pushed down on the accelerator pedal, expecting the car to lurch and threaten to stall, but instead he felt himself thrown back against the seat as the "283" roared and the tires grabbed the way they were supposed to. As giddy as a teenage boy with his first handful of titty, a big smile spread across Sam’s face. He rolled the driver’s side window down. The cool, Texas October breeze rushing in felt wonderful as the CD player blared a John Fogerty song called “Hot Rod Heart.” Surveying the quickly darkening sky, Sam thanked his lucky stars that he had recently replaced his windshield wipers. "Looks like that approaching cold front might bring some rain with it, Methuselah." He headed down Reading road, which led to the Southwest Freeway, and said, “I think we need some highway time, old buddy.”
Methuselah seemed to agree, accelerating quickly and smoothly on the entrance ramp, headed away from Houston and its heavy traffic, pointing west towards the open road that led to Wharton.
I always appreciate hearing from readers. Feel free to comment or ask questions regarding anything you see. Contact me here, on the writing.com website by emailing me at georgelasher@Writing.Com or you can send an email to my personal email at georgelasher59@gmail.com.
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© Copyright 2008 George R. Lasher (UN: georgelasher at Writing.Com).
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Content Rating Notice: Recommended for Readers 18 Years and Older Only
