Telemurdering: Chapter 10 - 12

Telemurdering

Chapter 10

        Monday morning at about seven, Nathan continued to sleep, while his tired brother backed his Ford pickup out of the driveway and headed to work. Looking for clues, the Police had arrived about ten the previous night. They spent three hours going over the house and back yard. Nathan voiced his suspicions concerning the telemarketer, Paul Grand, who worked at Safe Sentry Alarms in Houston.
        Doing his best to provide every detail for the police, he had painstakingly gone over the conversations with Paul. After the police left, Nathan spoke to Jeff about Jerry and Little Joe. Jeff asked why they never came to the hospital when anyone else was present, and wondered why they never hung around long enough for him to come home and visit with them.
        Nathan hadn't been able to answer those questions, but remained as certain that they were alive as he was about his own existence.
        Lying in bed, before falling asleep around two, Monday morning, Nathan looked down at the new watchband with the inscription, "Semper Fidelis," and had decided that just because Jeff doubted the existence (and he still didn't know why) of Little Joe and Jerry, that didn't mean he should accept the fact that they were dead.
        "Always faithful." That's what his buddies said they were, and he knew they would be there with him, like old times, when he ventured into Houston the next day, in search of the bastard that broke into his house.
    At ten, Nathan woke up with a shudder from one of his grizzly, war-influenced nightmares and looked around to make sure he was in his bed, at home. He dreamed of being back in the hospital - but not in Oklahoma. His dream took him back to Vietnam. He saw himself unconscious, lying on a cot. Doctors and nurses stood around him in a circle mistakenly referring to him as Mr. Henderson. He clearly remembered one of them - a tall thin man, stammering, "Th- th-this would n-n-never have ha-happened if he had installed a security system."
      Looking about his room, he noticed a couple of new additions, tropical plants that hadn't been there last night. Curious, indeed. Where the hell had those plants come from? He heard the doorbell and threw the covers back, jumping up and grabbing his robe off the door hook, which he threw on and tied as he raced downstairs. He figured the police were returning to look for more clues. But when he opened the door he saw two Marines dressed and ready for action in combat fatigues, helmets, and all. Jerry and Little Joe were back!
    "You're out of uniform, soldier!" Jerry barked. "Get your ass back upstairs and get ready. We've been given a mission and we ain't gonna achieve our objective sittin' around here all day!"
    "Our objective? What are you talking about? What the heck are you guys doing in your combat gear? What’ll the neighbors think?" Nathan asked.
    Little Joe spoke up now, "We've had reports of enemy activity in this sector, Nathan. Our orders are to acquire the location of the enemy and eliminate them. Now, go get ready!"
    Nathan leaned out of the doorway looking around for a vehicle, and seeing none, asked, "How'd you guys get here?"
    "We're waiting, soldier," Jerry said, "We can sit around here and play 20 questions or we can play another game called payback. Which is it gonna be?"
    Impatiently, Little Joe took a step forward and said, "There's a Commie lovin' son-of-a-bitch out there with a new big-screen TV and a paintbrush in his hand, laughing at you and your brother, Nathan. Get dressed and let's shut him up!"
    Nathan wanted to do it. Little Joe and Jerry didn't need to give him a pep talk to make him want to do it - not after what the bastard did to Lindy's portrait. But he hadn't driven a car in over ten years, and then it had been with Jeff, on some back roads in a sparsely populated area of Fort Bend county where the roads were virtually deserted. He recalled he had been reluctant to take the wheel, even with Jeff sitting right there, knowing he wouldn't be going more than 35 miles an hour. The thought of getting in Jeff's new BMW now, and cruising down the Southwest Freeway doing at least 60 to 65, with five lanes of other cars zooming past him at 80 or more, quite frankly scared the living shit out of him.
    "Don't make us have to come in there and drag you out, soldier," Jerry warned.
    "We're here to stand by you, Nathan, just like the watchband says." Little Joe promised.
    "All right, guys," Nathan capitulated, "come on in." He turned and jogged back up the stairs, followed closely by his two combat buddies. At the top of the stairs he reached up and pulled down on the cord to the attic door. He unfolded the ladder and flipped on the too small and all but useless attic light. As soon as he set foot in the dusty, tomblike museum of forgotten or seldom used Piper relics he saw it.
      There it lay, calling to him like the mythical sea sirens that tempted Ulysses, clouding his judgment with their seductive song. It was the old, green trunk with all of his military memorabilia and personal effects from Vietnam. Standing in the stillness of the dimly lit loft, Nathan had a vague sense of what Howard Carter, the famous English archaeologist, must have felt like back in 1922, peering into the unspoiled, 2,000 year old burial chamber of the Egyptian boy-Pharaoh, Tutankhamun.
      He kneeled reverently before what, to him, represented the royal sarcophagus, opened it, for what was probably the first time in thirty years, and saw his Marine handbook, a revolver, a knife, his old dog tags, and his medals. Lying neatly arranged on a red blanket with an embroidered Marine emblem was the Silver Star, awarded for uncommon valor, the Purple Heart, issued for being wounded during combat, and a third medal, given for serving his country in and during the Vietnam conflict. Jerry and Little Joe stood solemnly at attention and saluted, as Nathan lifted the small tokens of a nation's gratitude out of the trunk and carefully laid them aside on the attic floor.
      Picking up the firearm, he marveled at how cool and solid and good the weapon felt. He would have to clean and oil it. He would do so, lovingly, before it could be considered combat ready. His hand readily, almost greedily, gripped and welcomed the old, familiar weight and balance of the pistol, as the walls and floor of the attic began to lose their shape, shimmering at first like waves of humid summertime heat, rising up in the distance off a hot, South Texas asphalt road and then becoming transparent.
      As the attic faded around him and dissolved, Nathan found himself mysteriously transported back to the jungles of the Mekong Delta. Without ever questioning the inexplicable transportation, feeling completely at ease with his new surroundings, he crouched down, and scanned the dense forest for signs of the enemy. The monsoons were evidently over and Nathan squinted through the alternating shafts of bright sunshine, which intermittently penetrated the shade of the towering mangroves. Somewhere up there in those trees, playful monkeys chattered and screeched, while Viet Cong snipers clung to their perches, chewing their provisions of salted, dried fish, with their AK-47's slung over their shoulders, waiting patiently, intent on spotting another Yankee Devil to send home in a pine box.
      Nathan figured he must be close to a village because he distinctly heard the voices of children playing and detected the aroma of food being prepared. Rising up from an iron skillet, traveling downwind to tickle his olfactory nerves, was the familiar fragrance of fishcakes, which he knew all too well. Recognizing the smell and realizing what it meant, Nathan knew trouble was on its way. The wind picked up and began to howl while the surrounding atmosphere darkened and lightning forked across the sky, or, he wondered,  (and the mind can move so quickly in such a short amount of time) was the blinding flash coming from inside his head? Were the flashes simply the result of misguided electrical impulses generated by an injured brain, arcing across damaged neurons, nerves, and synaptic relays?
      Each ensuing bolt of lightning burned like fire behind his eyes, making him twitch and grimace in pain, transforming the Vietnamese topography back into attic walls and unfinished floors, followed seconds later by another brilliant spark streaking across the cerebral firmament, which would reverse the scene and once again place him in southeast Asia.
      His legs weakened and he stumbled backwards, losing his equilibrium as the electrical brainstorm swirled and intensified within him. The attic roof disintegrated, boards and shingles spiraling upwards in a twisting trail of debris, revealing an immense funnel cloud, the roaring mouth of which hovered above him, yawning ominously. With all the ease of a giant whale mindlessly ingesting plankton as it glided gracefully above the seabed, it dipped and swallowed his mind, lifting and enveloping him in its temporal vortex just as his corporal form collapsed, narrowly avoiding a potentially neck-breaking tumble through the rectangular opening to the attic where the ladder and door extended downward to the second floor, ten feet below.
      Helplessly, Nathan found himself flung back and forth between alternating times and places. It seemed like the universe couldn't come to a final decision as to which geographic or chronological location should be his permanent destination, or perhaps, resting place.
      Before he completely lost consciousness in the midst of this whirling time tornado, he opened his eyes one last time and looked up into the face of a chimpanzee, curiously studying him. The chimp pulled his lips back, in a toothy grin, shook his head, pointed with a hairy, crooked finger and laughed. perhaps the chimp felt lucky that his brain was in far better working condition than this poor mammalian excuse for an evolutionary enhancement, who purportedly sprang from a higher branch on the genetic family tree. 
      At the Cattle Trail Smokehouse on the Southwest Freeway, towards the end of what had been a pleasant lunch between two old acquaintances, Sam Stetson dabbed at his prodigious mustache with his napkin and said, "Jerry Dobbins, we need to get together more often. I can't believe you actually worked at the old radio station there in Richburg. They sold it, you know, a number of years ago to a group of Hispanics, and it didn't even have any English language programming for a number of years until another group just bought it recently and divided up the A.M. and F.M. signals.
    Jerry put the slice of chicken breast down, which he had just cut, and said, "Oh, really? I hadn't heard that it had been sold again. They used to have both the A.M. and F.M. stations under the same roof. Is that still the case, and what kind of format are they running?"
    Sam smiled and said, "Yeah, they still have two stations under one roof. Country on the F.M. signal and on the A.M. they're still running in Espanol. Did you know Jim Patton used to DJ for that station back in the seventies?"
    Jerry had started to pick up the piece of chicken, but put it down again, saying, "Yes, evidently Jim and I just missed each other. He went up to Amarillo for a year or two as a program director, and then came back to the Houston area, but never worked in radio around here after that. How long was he on the station in Richburg, Sam, do you remember?"
    "If I remember correctly, he told me he started there in," he paused, squinting, and looking up at the ceiling as if it enabled him to more clearly see the answer in his mind, "1970, I believe."
    "No kidding? He was there that long?" Jerry was surprised. DJ's in small and medium market stations usually moved frequently from one station to another, looking for that big break that would vault them into big time radio. He had begun working there in 1979, and had left when the station was sold and started broadcasting only in Spanish. "Sam," Jerry asked, "You don't think Jim has run off with another woman, do you?"
    Sam looked up from his T-bone, which he was coming close to finishing, and said, "Nope. I think he was a happily married man. He used to tell me about trips that he and Becky were planning, usually to Las Vegas, and it sounded to me like he was pretty darned proud of the relationship he and his wife had. My daughter, Cindy, went to the last regular season baseball game in the Astrodome with them and their niece, Rachel, and she mentioned they seemed like a real happy couple, still holdin’ hands and all that kind’a stuff. I sure appreciate you lettin’ me question each of the telemarketers this
afternoon, Jerry. I know that fella from the HPD, what'd you say his name was?
    "Bill," Jerry replied, "Bill Velasquez."
    "Yeah, Bill. I don't know him personally, but anyway I know he questioned this guy named Paul, already, and I'm sure he did a good job, but it's amazin’ how people will change their stories sometimes, especially if they happen to be lyin’. Are there just three, or four telemarketers?"
    "Actually, there's six," Jerry answered, but two of them are kind of sporadic with their attendance. There's Dean, he works from 8 A.M. to 4 P.M. And then Max, Donnie, and Paul come in around one and work until eight-thirty. Maria and Dick come in at five-thirty. They're the ones that are here one day and gone the next. They're just part-timers."
    Sam took a big swig of ice tea and wiped his mustache again, after which he asked, "Do ya think there's any chance one of them part-timers might have been holdin' a grudge against Jim for not lettin' them work full time?"
    Leaning back in his chair, Jerry shook his head, no, saying, "Jim had a tough time getting them to show up as often as they do. They weren't giving him any indication of wanting full-time employment as far as I know, but feel free to talk to them too if you want. Maria's pregnant and only a couple of months, maybe less, from having the baby, so if she doesn't come in don't be too surprised."
    "Anything I should know about these people before I question them, Jerry? Did Velasquez find out anything I should know, goin’ in?"
    Jerry tilted his glass of ice tea up enough to get the last few drops and then set it back down on the table. "Paul is the only one Jim ever had any trouble with. He's on probation for calling up some poor woman and using scare tactics, telling her she lived in too bad of an area to go without an alarm system. He told her that there had been several rapes in her neighborhood, or something to that effect, so naturally she hit the ceiling and called back to complain. Paul denied everything, at first, but then later admitted what he had done. Jim made him think we had it all on tape."
    "Have you got a monitorin’ system?" Sam asked.
    "No, we don't. Much to Jim's displeasure, I might add. We never wanted to spend the money on one. Not the kind he wanted, anyway."
    "Well, that's a damn shame, Jerry. If it turns out one of your telemarketers is the one we're after, you just might have gotten everything we need, on tape; a whole confession, outlinin’ the whole plan. I'd sure recommend that you put one in, especially with the new laws in effect against telemarketers. It could end up savin’ you from a lawsuit or two.
    "Yeah," Jerry agreed, "You're right, but then hindsight always is twenty-twenty, isn't it? If we could see into the future, we'd all be rich; there'd be a lot fewer divorces, and a lot less illegitimate children being born."
    "Jerry, did you know I can tell the future?" Sam asked.
    "What do you mean, Sam?" Jerry wondered.
    Getting up out of his chair, Sam replied, "I'm gonna whiz all over myself in a minute, if I don't get to the little boys' room."
    "I'll get the check while you're gone," Jerry suggested, "unless you object terribly to that idea."
    "Now that's right neighborly of you, Jerry, and I'll let you get the check this time, but only if you'll promise to let me get it next time around." Sam turned, and headed for the restroom, as Jerry raised his hand to get the waiter's attention.
    Standing at the urinal, he had just unzipped his fly, and had just begun to attend to Mother Nature's rather urgent chore, when his cell phone rang. "How do people know when it's the most inconvenient time to call?" He wondered. He fished it out of his pants pocket, and looked at the incoming phone number on the display. "That would be Becky Patton, wanting to know how my investigation is proceeding," Sam figured, "I hope she won't mind if I finish shakin' the dew off my lily before I call her back."

    Thirty miles down the road, Nathan Piper was just regaining consciousness. He sat up, blinked, and looked around, making sure his surroundings were once again comprised of the unfinished walls and flooring of the attic rather than the jungles of Viet Nam. The residual headache, a parting gift of the seizure he had just experienced, pounded inside him like a heavyweight boxing champion hitting a punching bag.
    "Okay, soldier, nap time is over," came a voice from his left. He turned his head to see Little Joe and Jerry, arms crossed in front of them as they waited impatiently, sitting on the green trunk. Little Joe reiterated, "We still have a job to do, Nathan."
    "How long have I been out?" Nathan asked.
    "About an hour," Jerry replied. "We need to get crackin' buddy, get dressed and get that pistol cleaned and oiled. Time's a wastin'." Nathan got up, followed his friends down the stairs, retracted the ladder and closed the attic door, after which he  went to his room to dress. Hanging in the back of his closet was a green and brown, camouflage outfit he had purchased years ago from a surplus store; not military issue by any means, but good enough, he hoped, for the job at hand. He turned to see what his compadres thought about this substitute for a real uniform, and saw that they were nodding their heads in approval. As the garage door rose twenty minutes later the three of them sat in Jeff's brand new, ermine white, BMW 745i. Jerry was in the passenger seat, while Little Joe sat in the back, behind Jerry.
    Nervously, Nathan complained, "Guys, this car cost my brother about $70,000.00, if anything happens to it…"
    "Relax, Nathan,” Jerry assured him, “Nothing's going to happen to it. I seriously doubt that we're going to get in a high speed chase, but it's nice to know that if we do, we'll probably have the advantage. Remember guy, you'll be fine and the car will be fine. Look, we're right here with you. What could possibly go wrong?"
      Before they ever left the house Nathan had called for directions, and had looked up the location of the Safe Sentry office in the red key map Jeff kept on his desk at home. The plan, devised mainly by Jerry and Little Joe, was to go to the Safe Sentry office and meet with the branch manager, face to face. Nathan was going to make sure Paul Grand lost his job that day, after which, he would follow him home and make sure he found out what happened when you messed with Marines. On the way towards the freeway, Nathan's palms began to sweat as the idea of getting on highway 59, headed into Houston, seemed more terrifying by the minute. What if he got stopped? What if--
    "Nathan," Jerry interrupted his thoughts, "Everything's going to go according to plan. You're not about to turn yellow on us, are you?"
    "Hey," Nathan replied, "No problem. I've got everything under control, guys." But he didn't, and he knew it. What was worse, the headache was continuing to pound away inside his head. "Hey guys," Nathan suggested, "I'm gonna stop off at a grocery store, and pick up some Motrin or Tylenol for this headache, okay? I mean, it's really killing me!"
    Jerry nodded, "Yeah, okay Nathan, but let's get into Houston first, then we can stop. We want to get into town before the five o'clock traffic, don't we?"
    Nathan had no argument for that. Being stuck in five o'clock traffic on the Southwest Freeway was the worst imaginable scenario. Jesus, why had he agreed to do this? In spite of the perfectly controlled climate inside the German luxury vehicle, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Gingerly, he pushed down on the BMW's gas pedal, as he hit the entrance ramp from Reading road. The speedometer began to climb, steadily, smoothly, from 35 to 50, in what seemed like a heartbeat, and then to 55, which was where Nathan intended to keep his speed, crawling along in the slow lane, on the far right, all the way into Houston.
    Crossing over the Brazos River, Jerry began to grumble about how slowly Nathan was driving. "Nathan, you might want to get back home before midnight," followed shortly by, "Hey Nathan, wasn't that a snail that just passed us?" Nathan shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat, his hands clenching the wheel in a sweaty, white knuckled, vise-like, grip. He flinched, as Jerry burst out with, 'Hey, Nathan, I'm pretty sure they have a minimum speed along this freeway. I think it's forty-five. Are you sure you're doing at least forty-five?"
    The headache wasn't letting up, and Jerry wasn't helping any with his caustic comments. Nathan never looked away from the road, but responded to Jerry's insensitive badgering, saying, "Look, my head is splitting, and I told you I hadn't driven a car, except on some back country roads, ever since I got shot. Can you cut me a little slack? If you're going to continue to hound me, then I'll just pull over and you can drive. How do you like that?" Nathan took his foot off the gas pedal and began to slow down, preparing to pull off the highway onto the shoulder of the road.
    "Oh, sure," Jerry responded. "Are you saying you want me to drive your brother's seventy thousand dollar car? Think about it, Nathan."
    It didn't take much thought. Nathan pressed back down again on the "foot feed," and got his speed back up to fifty-five. The car that had been following behind them, an immaculately maintained, gold, 1989 Buick, driven by a little old white haired lady that could barely see over the top of her steering wheel, accelerated now and passed them as if they were standing still. Little Joe chuckled, noticing the dirty look she was giving them, and had to take one shot at Nathan as she went by, saying, "I don't blame you lady. I'm sure my ancestors saw wagon trains that moved faster than this. My gosh, Nathan, I think she just flipped you the bird!" 
    Almost thirty minutes and a multitude of insults later, Nathan, who had religiously stayed in the right lane with the rest of the slower traffic, took the exit marked Chimney Rock and turned right at the stoplight. Traveling down Chimney Rock, he spied a Kroger's grocery store on the right and with his head still feeling like it might explode, pulled into the parking lot. "You guys want anything?" Nathan asked, as he unbuckled his seat belt, swung his door open and began to step out. He cringed, as the sound of metal hitting metal rang out, and stared in horror at the door of the BMW, which had
opened much wider than he had anticipated, connecting solidly with the side of a black, Lincoln Town car.
    "Way to go, Nathan," came a sarcastic shout from Little Joe, in the back seat of the BMW.
    "You're a God damned walking disaster, Nathan" Jerry crowed. "You're Forest Gump, in reverse! He was dumb, but everything he touched turned to gold. You're smart, or at least we used to think you were, and everything you touch--"
    Nathan interrupted, and acknowledged the high praise with a weak wave of his hand, saying, "Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys." Feeling slightly nauseated and somewhat faint, now, with the needle in the brain pressure gauge already far into the red danger zone, he bent over to closely examine the damage. Bending over, and the resulting increased flow of blood to his head only served to increase the pain, and he staggered momentarily, almost losing his balance. The corner edge of the BMW's door had gouged the lower right side of the black Lincoln, leaving an extremely noticeable, and ugly white scar in the Lincoln's formerly pristine finish, as well as an incriminating accumulation of black paint on the tip of the Beamer's door.
    "Look at that black paint," Nathan groaned, pointing at the door of his brother's car, "Jeff is gonna kill me!"
    Little Joe and Jerry got out now and went around to survey the damage. Shaking his head, Little Joe commented, "Man, you scalped that Lincoln, Nathan. Peeled it like a grape! You sure you don't have some Indian blood in you?"
    Jerry said, "I'm not gonna kick you anymore while you're down, buddy, but if I were you, I'd find some real strong aspirin, or whatever, in that store."
    Nathan reached back into the BMW and opened up the console, finding one of Jeff's message pads from Piper Pipes and Drilling. He wrote a note to the owner of the Lincoln, apologizing and listing his name, address, and phone number. In spite of Jerry and Little Joe's protests, he stuck it under the windshield wiper on the driver's side and headed into the store. He may not be a very good driver, hell, he might not even be able to get out of a car safely, but that didn't mean he wasn't a man of honor. He turned and chided his companions, saying, "It's about honor guys. I thought you would understand that."
    Looking ashamed of themselves, Jerry and Little Joe shut up and got back in the car.
    After looking at what must have been about a hundred different pain remedies, Nathan settled on maximum strength Motrin and headed for a check-out counter. The line of six or seven customers in the express lane looked as if it might take longer to get through than the nearest of the regular lanes, where only two people were in line. The first of the two customers, a black lady, with what looked like enough groceries to feed a whole platoon, was just about finished, while the second, a  long haired guy, only had about seven or eight items. Evidently he had also decided the express lane would be
slower than getting in this regular check out lane. Nathan was investigating the selection of magazines and sensationalistic news rags while he waited for his turn, when the guy in front of him told the checker, who spoke with a pronounced lisp, he didn't have enough money for everything he had intended to get. Nathan saw that the items the checker was being told to put back were Gerber's baby food, a box of diapers, and milk, while the items that were being kept included a twelve pack of Budweiser, a large bag of chips, some French onion dip, and a carton of  Marlboros. Nathan tapped the guy on the shoulder and asked, "How short are you?"
    Startled, the man, who looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties turned and asked, "What?"
    Nathan asked again, noticing the faint smell of marijuana in the man's hair and on his clothes, "How much money do you need to get the diapers, the baby food and the milk?"
    Shrugging, indicating it was no big deal to him, the long haired man who was dressed atrociously in clothes that looked like they came from a dumpster, and had evidently gone a couple of days without shaving, replied, "About twenty dollars, I think. I c-could have sworn I had another twe-twe-twenty, but I m-must have lost it."
    Nathan smiled, and held out a twenty. "Here," he said, "Babies have to have diapers and food."
    The young man looked at Nathan, his sunken, gray, eyes peering out from under a furrowed brow, wondering why this complete stranger might be so stupid as to throw away twenty bucks. Looking back down at the twenty, he stammered, “Yeah, b-b-but, how can I…"
    Nathan waved him off, saying, "No, don't worry about it; really. Just take care of the baby."
    The thin, scruffy looking guy reached out with a trembling hand, which seemed to shake due to some illness, Nathan thought it could possibly be A.I.D.S., rather than nerves. He took the twenty and handed it to the clerk, a chubby, red headed, nineteen year old girl with heavy eye shadow who beamed with delight at the exhibition of human kindness she had just witnessed. She bagged all of the items and handed them to the long-haired, but short-funded, man, with a hearty, "Thankth for thopping at Krogerth, have a nithe day!" A lot of people would have paused at least long enough to once
again thank the stranger that had shelled out twenty bucks so they could afford diapers, milk and baby food, but not this individual. He just took his bagged items, as well as the eighty six cents in change that slid down and clinked into the round metal receptacle from the automatic change dispenser, and headed out the door without ever turning around.
    Nathan was embarrassed by the impressed teenager, whose nametag proudly proclaimed her to be " Judy, a valued employee, in training." Judy ran his box of Motrin across the price scanner and started to tell the next person in line, behind Nathan, what a wonderful thing he had done for the man who didn't have enough money. The next fellow chuckled, put out his hand and said, "Hey, I might run a little short too. Stick around." Everyone had a good laugh, except Nathan, who just smiled, thinking the man had been serious. Nathan just didn't get subtle humor.
    Walking back out of the store, after stopping at the water fountain and taking a couple of Motrin, Nathan was feeling a little better. Better, because his headache wasn't quite as bad, probably due to him feeling less stress, because the medicine certainly hadn't had enough time to start working yet, and better about himself as a person. "I'm so lucky," he thought to himself, "Jeff will get mad about the car, sure, he has a right to, but he's the best brother in the whole world. He'll still love me, no matter what. I'm lucky to be alive, lucky to have had such great parents, lucky to have such great friends, and lucky, as all get out, to have such a super brother." Although he was understandably apprehensive about the events that might or might not unfold later in the evening, there was just a hint of a spring in his step as the store's sliding glass doors parted, allowing him to exit and head back to the BMW where Jerry and Little Joe sat waiting.
    Nathan was glad to see the Lincoln was still there as he opened the door to the BMW. At least now he didn't have worry about a confrontation in the parking lot, and since he wouldn't be home until around, well, when would he get home tonight? That remained to be seen. Anyway, he hoped he wouldn't have to listen to the owner tonight, who would probably be angry. Nathan was counting on the fact that Jeff would be quite late getting home tonight, as he usually was on Mondays, and wouldn't have to hear from an irate stranger that his car had been involved in a parking lot mishap. Buckling his seat belt and turning the ignition, Nathan spoke in his most authoritative, commanding, voice, "Onward, to Safe Sentry Security!"
    Little Joe added, "Wagons, Ho!"
    Jerry said, "Let's just try to get there in one piece, shall we?"
    Pulling out of the parking lot, all three saw a robin's egg, blue and white, mint conditioned '57 Chevy turning into the parking lot off of Chimney Rock. Jerry whistled an old fashioned wolf-whistle and shouted, "Talk about your classics, guys, that is one sweet ride! Absolutely cherry!"
    Nathan said, "I think I've seen that car around Richburg several times. I wonder if the owner lives out there? You wanna go back and ask?"
    "We haven't got time, Nathan," Little Joe commented from the back. “We have to take care of the business at hand, but that is a fine automobile, no doubt about it."
    Sam Stetson had spoken to everyone he had gone to talk to. Everyone that is, except Paul Grand. Now, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he headed back on Chimney Rock towards the Southwest Freeway, he felt like the long drive in from Richburg and the majority of the time he had spent at the alarm company had been wasted. Paul hadn't shown up for work today, and although Sam waited and waited through about ten cups of coffee and another collection of old radio broadcast stories, courtesy of  Jerry Dobbins, he hadn't been able to speak with the one person he most
wanted to question. Just as a white BMW 745i was pulling out, he zipped into the Kroger's parking lot, appreciating the burst of power from his rejuvenated Chevy. While Sam preferred American craftsmanship in virtually all technologies, he still couldn't help turning his head to follow the sleek, white, luxury automobile that headed off in the direction he had just come from. "Now don't get jealous, Methuselah, but that is a damn fine car," Sam said. He shook his head in genuine admiration and repeated, "Damn fine, but you're a real head turner too, you know? You're like a young buck again, aren't ya?"
      Gliding into a parking place, he reached out and smiled, as he patted the dashboard lovingly before turning the ignition off. Ever since he took his car in to have that engine overhaul it had been such a pleasure to drive. It made worthless trips like the one he had just made into Houston seem just a little more bearable. Sam left his gray, felt hat on the passenger's side of the bench seat and swinging the door open carefully, after checking to make sure how much clearance there was between Methuselah and the red Camaro on the left, he said, "I'm gonna have to send that Cody fella a thank you note, or maybe take him out to Wylies for lunch." He had stopped here, rather than going to the Kroger's in Richburg, because it was one of the larger "Signature" stores with a bigger bakery and more items from which to choose. He didn't feel like a fast food burger for his supper tonight, but he didn't want a steak tonight, either. After all, he had just polished off a big T-bone for lunch. He looked around in the deli area for a while before finally deciding nothing looked good to him, at least not good enough to buy. He had a few cans of Campbell's chunky chicken soup in his pantry at home and figured that and some crackers would do him just fine. Just before he left the deli area, out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of what was going to be tonight's dessert. Krispy Kreme donuts. He headed for the display case, picked out four chocolate iced and dropped them in one of the provided bags. He was just about to head for the checkout counter when he remembered he was getting low on milk, and with four Krispy Kremes he was going to have to have some milk. Halfway through the store on his way back to the refrigerated dairy lockers, he reached up and slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand as he realized he still had some business to attend to tonight before he went home and didn't want to leave a gallon of milk sitting in Methuselah for an extended period of time, so he turned back  around again, feeling kind of foolish, and headed back to the checkout area.   
      By chance, Sam selected the same young cashier that had waited on Paul and Nathan. Judy was still feeling unusually merry and cheerily asked, "Do you have a Kroger'th dithcount card?"
    To which Sam responded, "Do I get a discount on my donuts if I do?"
    Judy said, "No, but they like uth to athk everyone. Would you like a dithcount card, thir?"
    Sam smiled and gave the corner of his mustache a twirl. "Young lady," he drawled, "I hope it doesn't dampen your enthusiasm, but as temptin’ as your invitation to enjoy significant savin’s may be, I am gonna pass on the opportunity at this time. Perhaps I'll apply the next time we meet. I'll probably be back this way in the next day or two." 
    Judy didn't care, she was just doing her job, but she was touched by how polite this tall, thin guy with a bushy mustache was. Had he seemed like he was in a hurry, she wouldn't have bothered him, but he was so nice and since there wasn't anyone else in line behind him, she just couldn't resist telling her little story one more time. "That'll be $2.81," she said, "and gueth what happened jutht a little while ago?"
    Fumbling in his rear pants pocket for his wallet, Sam asked, "Something unusual, I take it?" He handed her a five, while Judy told him how a guy in a camouflage outfit, kinda like a soldier, had paid for a long haired guy's baby food, milk and diapers, just out of the kindness of his heart and wouldn't even let the long haired guy take his name or anything so he could pay him back. Sam nodded and said, "Well, that is kind of unusual, isn't it? Just when you think there isn't a spark of human kindness left in this old world…"
    Judy hit the key that activated the change dispenser and handed two dollars back to Sam, who reached over and scooped the nineteen cents out of the round receptacle. As he dropped the change into his pocket an idea popped into Sam's head, to which his initial reaction was, "No chance, that's just too far fetched," but then, after glancing back, and seeing there was still nobody in line, he decided, "why not?" Stuffing his wallet back in his hip pocket he asked, "Judy, what did that long-haired fella look like?"
    "Like he jutht crawled out of a dumpthter," she offered, leaning forward. "He wath medium height, had a big forehead, a retheding hairline, and dark hair, combed thtraight back that came down to jutht about hith thoulder bladeth, and hith eyeth, they were kinda weird."
    "How so? Sam asked."
    "I don't know, really, I mean, you know how, uthually, if thomeone were to athk you what color thome thtrangerth eyeth were, you wouldn't notith, but with thith guy, I notithed right away. They were gray; cold, thteel, gray. Kind'a thpooky lookin' deepthet eyeth that looked, well, I gueth you could thay, they looked nervouth."
    Sam was amazed. It was pretty darned rare to get that good of a description from a crime witness, even when you were talking to someone who had been robbed and had been eye to eye with the thief. This bright, lisping young lady's description had just sounded an awful lot like the one Jerry Dobbins had given him, ceptin' of course Jerry didn't have a lisp. Both descriptions had included particular mention of those eyes. Jerry had said they were like the eyes of an escaped convict talking to a suspicious cop; always attempting to avoid eye contact while trying to think of a believable lie. Sam had asked for, but Jerry didn’t have any pictures of Paul, or photos of the entire telemarketing group. The only picture related to Paul was one sitting on the desk in his cubicle of Paul’s wife, Giselle. It was a good picture, possibly taken by a professional photographer, but it was an inappropriate picture for a place of business, as she was standing on a beach in a string bikini that exposed just about everything that should be covered up in a place of business. Picking up the plastic sack that held his paper bag of donuts, Sam thanked Judy and said, "I appreciate the information Judy, and I'd like to give you a tip."
    Judy's face froze as if he had said, "this is a stick up," or "I have a bomb in this bag of donuts." She struggled for a second, figuring out how to say no, nicely. Sam was the first customer that had ever offered her a tip. "Oh, uh, we can't acthept tipth, thir, But thankth for the kind thought. I could get in trouble for acthepting a tip."
    "Not for this kind of tip, you can't," Sam assured her. Judy’s eyebrows arched in anticipation, as Sam said, “I noticed you have your tongue pierced with one of those stylish silver studs, and while I salute your expression of independence and the right to make your own decisions, I just can't help but mention that my daughter, Cindy, who is a senior in high school, has a friend who scholastically is one of the top students in her class. Well, her friend recently had her tongue pierced, and damned if it didn't end up causin’ nerve damage. Now nobody can understand her when she speaks, which is too
bad, because she was on the debate team and in drama. Cindy said she was going to major in broadcast journalism and maybe wind up on TV, but hey, she's smart, she'll figure somethin’ else out, I'm sure.” Judy’s look of anticipation had long since faded as Sam added, “Anyway, I sure hope you don't run into any problems of that sort. You have a nice day, now." He reached up with his right hand and went to tip his hat, as Judy, who had now categorized him as one of those old fashioned farts who always try to enforce their antiquated ideals on everyone dutifully thanked him “for thopping at
Krogerth.” Sam remembered, as his hand met with nothing but air above his head that his hat was sitting in his car, so he just gave a little half hearted, somewhat self-conscious wave instead and turned away to head for the exit.
    As he walked towards Methuselah, Sam thought, “When I’m talkin’ to anyone under forty I’ve got to learn to keep my opinions and preferences to myself. Nobody seems to understand or appreciate them anymore.  Hell, I’m not even sure I do.” 
    Sam had asked Jerry for Paul's address before leaving the Alert Center, hoping to go to Paul's residence that evening, and Jerry had been just about to give it to him when he changed his mind. "Sam," he had said, "If I gave you that address, and you went over there and got into a fight with Paul, and either one of you got injured, I'd feel awfully guilty." Sam had told Jerry he could get the address through other means, and Jerry had said he knew that, but at least he wouldn't feel like he had been responsible if one or the other got hurt somehow.
    Pulling into the driveway of the house he had helped pay for, but no longer lived in, Sam turned off the CD player, followed by the lights and ignition and got out of Methuselah, regretting that he had reached the house before the climactic ending to George Thorogood’s "Bad to the Bone." Sam had what he considered to be probably one of the more eclectic, diversified, CD collections outside of a bonafide music store, and had brought with him today Mr. Thorogood's greatest hits, as well as CD's by George Strait, Faith Hill, the Glen Miller orchestra, Chicago, Natalie Cole, Lynard Skynard, the Doobie Brothers, and the Marshall Tucker band. Sam had a love for music that his ex-wife, Amanda, did not share, and it had always been a source of minor irritation between them during the nineteen years they lived together as man and wife. Still humming the classic beginning to the song that had been one of his favorites ever since he saw the great sci-fi thriller, "The Terminator," Sam pushed on the doorbell and waited for what he knew was going to be trouble.
    The door opened, and Amanda Stetson stood there, one foot tapping the floor Impatiently. Her arms were crossed; a scowl spoiled the otherwise classic features of her face, and there was a cold edge to her voice that reminded him why the divorce had been unavoidable, "You were supposed to be here over an hour ago," she complained, "but it's just a milestone in the life of our only child that we were going to talk about. I already know how that must pale in comparison to whatever you may have been doing. You're the one that said we have to talk, Sam, and then you make me sit around wondering if you're even going to show up. You wouldn't have even known anything about this development if I hadn't told you."
    "And I apologize for my late arrival, Amanda. As I'm sure you remember, sometimes things in my line of work don't go just the way they're expected to go. I was waiting to see a particular…"
    Amanda uncrossed her arms, and stepping aside to make room for him to get by, cut him off with, "I don't care. Just get in here and let's get this meeting over with. I have better things to do than sit around waiting to talk with you." She gave her dark blonde  hair a determined shake as Sam passed by, and with her tastefully dressy, black, high-heels clicking on the tile floor, which Sam remembered had cost a pretty penny, she followed behind him to the kitchen table, across which they had shouted away a good portion of their final two years together.
    "Amanda," Sam started as soon as she was seated across from him, doing his best to avoid a major confrontation, "you certainly look marvelous, tonight. Goin’ out, perhaps?" he asked, forcing a smile.
    "Yes, I have to meet with Bill and Henry about the Anderson case." Bill and Henry were the senior partners in the law firm Amanda worked for. "Then we're going out for drinks. They should be here any minute, so cut the crap and let's get down to business."
    "Well, okay," Sam agreed, fighting the urge to make some disparaging remark about Bill and Henry, both of whom he disliked intensely, and pushed away from the table enough to turn sideways, throwing one arm over the back of his chair, "I'm not sure how we can handle this issue in just a minute or two, though, Amanda. I mean Cindy isn't the most mature young lady I've ever met. There's still a lot of little girl forgetfulness in her, and I'm not sure we can trust her to, well, what I mean to say is that puttin’ her on the pill, well, isn’t that like tellin’ her to have at it, baby? And my God, Amanda, that boy she's goin’ with; is that your idea of a potential son-in-law? Now, you may like his taste in earrings, but have you seen the tattoo on his arm? They still don't allow anything that explicit in Playboy. He has to cover it up with a large armband, or a long sleeve shirt, to be allowed in school. What the devil is she thinkin’?"
    Amanda got up while Sam spoke and crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator. She was still a fine figure of a woman at the age of forty-four, and tonight in her conservative, black dress, her fine, tall figure in motion still attracted Sam's attention as well as admiring glances from any and all heterosexual males that were getting around without a white cane. "What she is thinking, Sam," she answered as she poured herself a glass of water, "is that she is one of the last virgins in her class." She raised the pitcher of water, and being the perfect hostess  motioned to Sam, wondering if he might like a glass of water as well. He shook his head no, as she said, "This just isn't the late fifties or early sixties anymore, Sam. Are you aware that Eisenhower isn't the president anymore?Ward and June Cleaver aren't the prototypical parents these days. There aren't many boys like Wally, except maybe in some small, isolated towns out in the Midwest, and Beaver is no longer a suitable nickname for a boy. Frankly, I'm flattered that she came to me and told me she was planning to become sexually active…"
    Sam winced, emotionally pained, grabbing his chest in mock discomfort at the words, saying, "Stop, Amanda, you're killin’ me."
    Amused, she asked, "Is that all it takes? If I had known that, I'd have used this tactic against you several years ago."
    "So then," Sam was grasping at straws, "you don't think there's anything we can do or say? What if I was to tell her I'd take back her car, or withhold the money for college…"
    "She'd say she didn't care, and she'd think you were a real shit, which would, incidentally, make two in this house that would feel that way instead of  just one."
    "Well, damn," Sam grumbled, looking down dejectedly, "if that don't make me feel about a hundred years old. It was bad enough when she started havin’ periods, but now, she really is all grown up, isn't she?"
    Amanda came back to the table and sat down. "No, Sam, she isn't. She's still going to need our guidance and love for a long time. That doesn't mean she'll always do what we suggest, but she will occasionally want to listen to what we have to say, and that's what pisses me off the most, about you. You won't be there for her, just like you weren't there when I needed you to be. Personally, I wish she would just listen to me and let your bullshit go in one ear and out the other."
    "You mean like you always did," Sam stated, remembering the way she used to tune him out when he would try to explain his side of virtually any story.
    "Still do," Amanda confirmed, raising an eyebrow.
    "Ouch," Sam replied. They looked at each other for a moment, as two people do sometimes when they feel the regret and pain caused by a past they wish could be altered, somehow, but aren't really sure exactly where they went wrong or what they would do differently, if anything, given a second chance. Now, only Cindy and a tangled collage of good and bad memories remained as links to the love that once existed. There was nothing particularly unique about their situation. As the years unfolded they grew apart, each one concentrating on their own careers and needs. Amanda had become the quintessential lawyer. Thorough, persistent, demanding and reliable, while Sam, after retiring from the police force, had become what he had always wanted to be, a righter of wrongs, a vigilante, unencumbered by the laws which handcuffed the crime fighter, rather than the criminal. During his years in law enforcement, before he became disillusioned by the failures of the justice system, he had embraced the long hours and became immersed in the satisfaction of doing the right thing, keeping the peace, helping people find answers about missing loved ones, while as the years marched by, he himself became missed, mourned, and then virtually forgotten, to the point that his wife decided, or to put it more precisely, felt she was forced to move on emotionally. At least, that was the way that she saw it, and the way that she explained it to him a while back when he was served with the divorce papers.
    The doorbell rang, breaking the silence and Amanda stood, saying, "Gotta go Sam. I just wanted you to know what's happening in your daughter's life. There isn't really much we can do about it, other than love her and offer suggestions when and if she asks."
    Sam pulled a CD out of his jacket and handed it to Amanda. "Give this to Cindy for me would you? It's the latest by the Dixie Chicks. Tell her Daddy's still out chasing bad men like Earl, and he loves her very much." Earl, of course, was the character who the Dixie Chicks sang about, who beat up his bride and then ended up being poisoned by his poor little wife and her best friend.
    Amanda smiled and said, "She'll like that. I'll put it on her bed with a note, saying that it's from you. Oh, yeah, Cindy wanted me to ask if you're still coming over for dinner on Sunday? I promise not to poison the black-eyed peas.”
    Sam got up from the table and said, "I'll be here if it's okay with you. What time should I show up?"
    Pushing her chair back under the table Amanda replied, "I don't know why you bother asking what time we want you here." Turning and leading him towards the front door, after depositing her water glass in the sink she said, "We already know you'll be at least an hour late, but, how about five-thirty?"
    "You wound me, Amanda," Sam said with a hurt tone, as he followed her, "You never know, I might just surprise you and be right on time."
    Amanda opened the door, and said, "Yeah, when pigs fly. Have a nice evening, Sam." She stood aside and waited for him to leave.
    Holding out his arms, Sam asked, "What, no goodnight kiss?" As the scowl returned to her face, he shrugged and stepped outside where he found her two partners who stood, waiting impatiently, on the top step of the front porch. "Sorry about makin’ you guys wait," Sam said with a wink, a wry, crooked smile and a twist of his mustache.The smug, condescending looks on their faces prompted him to add, "But you know how it goes, she couldn't resist gettin’ in a quickie for old times sake." He didn't turn around to see the look of horrified embarrassment on his ex-wife's face. He didn't have to. He had seen it often enough in the past. But he sure enjoyed knowing it was there, just the same. Getting in Methuselah, he buckled his seat belt and turned the ignition. Feeling particularly feisty he gunned the engine a couple of times, turned the CD player back on, cranking it up to a volume level that he knew would have Amanda grinding her teeth, and backed out of the driveway. He sat there in the middle of the street for just a moment,
smiling, while he rolled the driver's side window down, reached out, waived goodbye to the stunned group still standing on the porch and, after shifting into drive, drove off slowly, treating the entire neighborhood to one more round of George Thorogood  and the Destroyers playing "Bad to the Bone." As Sam cruised by, old Mr. Johnson who lived three doors down was out on his front lawn just bending over to pick up his copy of the local newspaper. Red faced, due to the combined exertion of bending over and his profound dislike of loud Rap or Rock and Roll, he shook his gnarly, twisted, arthritic
fist at what he assumed was another one of those punk kids with their obnoxious music. Further back, if he had been looking in his rear view mirror, Sam might have seen Amanda illuminated by the porch light, lifting a one fingered salute to the receding tail lights of the blue and white Chevy rolling leisurely along under the soft glow of the arched street lamps that lined Colonial Plantation drive.

    "Telemurdering"
    Chapter 11
    Nathan was bombarded with a myriad of emotions as he walked out of the Safe Sentry offices. He had liked Jerry Dobbins immediately, but had been told in no uncertain terms that Paul wasn't going to be fired, at least not without a thorough investigation of the claims that had been levied against him. Nathan didn't appreciate Jerry’s refusal to give him Paul's phone number or address. Innocent until proven guilty was something Nathan believed in, usually, but in this case he felt he had all the proof he needed. His anger at being denied the information he had sought was tempered by the revelation that his new Razorback friend whom he had hoped to meet, the telemarketing manager, Jim Patton, was indeed missing as the bastard on the phone had claimed, with no clue as to what might have happened to him. As he opened the door of the BMW, his buddies, who had been waiting patiently in the car were full of questions. Before he could even sit down, Jerry asked, "So, are we gonna go kick some ass?"
    And before he could begin to answer, Little Joe asked, "Did you get the address and phone number?" 
    Nathan got in and closed the door. He began fastening his seat belt as he replied, "No, and no. We aren't going to kick some ass tonight, and no, I didn't even get the address and phone number."
    Jerry and Little Joe were appalled. The disappointment was evident in his voice as Jerry said, "I knew we should have gone in there with you. Nathan, you have to learn to be more assertive, partner!" He smacked his fist into his palm to emphasize his point. Nathan turned and looked to Little Joe, hoping for an inkling of support, but Little Joe just sat there with his arms crossed, shaking his head and looking disgusted.
    The guy I talked to was a real nice guy," Nathan said, doing his best to get his buddies to understand. "His name was Jerry Dobbins, he's the branch manager. He said some other guy was just in there asking for that telemarketer's address and phone number, and he didn't give that guy what he was after, either. Anyway, I think he knows this Paul Grand character is fuckin' up, bigtime."
    "Who was in there?" Jerry asked. "Was it the police, or anyone we know?"
    "Do they suspect this Paul Grand guy of foul play? Little Joe asked."
    "They don't know. There might not be a connection, but the wife of the telemarketing manager has some private eye named Sam Stetson looking for him and trying to find out what might have happened. I got one of his business cards from Mr. Dobbins." Nathan looked at the card, placed it on the console, and said, "Sam Stetson, hmmm. That name sure seems familiar."
    Jerry cocked his head to one side and said, "Yeah, it does; Sam Stetson, huh? Where have I heard that name?" Jerry turned around and asked Little Joe, "Does that name ring a bell with you pard?"
    Little Joe nodded, “Yes, it definitely rings a bell," he said.
    "Well, Hell. This is gonna drive me nuttier than a squirrel turd,” Jerry said, squinting, still trying to cut through the fog in his memory, "but I'm gonna think of it before we get back to Richburg."
    "Well, this whole trip has been a nightmare," Nathan complained, banging the palm of his right hand against the top of the steering wheel. "We didn't accomplish one damn thing, and I screwed up Jeff's car to boot!" While he turned the key to start the BMW and put the car into reverse, he tried to imagine what he was going to say to Jeff about the black paint on the door. Backing out of the parking slot, his thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected jolt and the horrible, grinding, sound of metal, banging and scraping against metal. He had just backed his brother's $70,000 car into one of the parking lot light poles. He cradled his head in his hands, wishing he had never listened to Jerry’s and Little Joe's suggestion to borrow the Beamer.
    "Hey, Nathan, did you bring your cell phone?" Jerry asked.
    Nathan raised his head, and you could clearly hear the pain in his voice as he said, "Yeah, why?"
    "Because I think I wanna call a cab, man. Vietnam was never this dangerous." Jerry turned, to ask Little Joe how he felt and saw that the Indian was slumped forward in his seat. The seat belt was all that was keeping him from falling forward against the back of the front passenger's seat. At first, judging by Jerry’s voice you could tell he thought it was an act, but then a little genuine concern began to emerge. "Little Joe, man, are you okay? Little Joe? Hey man, really now, what's wrong?"
    Little Joe looked up and opened one eye. "I'm supposed to be dead according to Nathan's brother. And if I weren't dead already, by the time this trip is over, with Nathan driving I surely will be."
    Jerry laughed out loud, and said, "Stop it you're killing me! Oh yeah, too late, you can't kill me, I'm already dead, too!"
      Nathan wasn't laughing. Instead, he was wondering, how did they know what Jeff had said? Had he told them and just not remembered it? Yeah, that must be it. What other explanation could there be? He got out of the car to see the additional damage that he had done. "Awww Jesus," he moaned, staring at the scar, which stood out like a puss-filled pimple on a prom queen. But no amount of Clearasil was going to make this blemish disappear. No sir, it wasn't a pretty sight.
    At the wheel of his white Mustang, cruising slowly down another dirt road, Paul yelled at Giselle, "Will you put that fuckin' pipe down for a minute and help me f-f-find this house? God damn it Giselle, we're lost right n-now! Look, I found this pigeon and I rented the U-haul. Since you'll p-probably end up spending damn near all of the money on crack, the least you can do is look in the fuckin' k-key map!"
      Giselle coughed, her head tilted back against the headrest after exhaling an enormous cloud of smoke, and without opening her eyes said, "Fuck you, Paul. You should'a looked it up before coming out here, you idiot. Just be glad I got my mother to watch Richard or we wouldn't even be here."
    "Shit, all of these houses are so far b-back from the road, I can't see the addresses, and most of them d-don't have anything on their m-m-mailboxes! C'mon baby, help me out."
    Conveying far more effort than it actually took, Giselle leaned forward, reached into the glove box and retrieved a miniature flashlight. "Here," she said, holding it out to Paul. "When you think you might be at the right address, stop the car, get out, and go look to see if they have any mail in their box. First of all, there might be something in there like new credit cards or something we can use. And if not, then maybe you can at least figure out if this is the right fuckin' house." She shook her head, said, "Geez, what a fuckup," picked her pipe back up and leaned back in her seat. She was just about ready to take another hit when Paul reached over and slapped the pipe out of her hand.
    "Cut that shit out!" he demanded.
    That got her attention, but not in the way he had hoped. She exploded on him, slashing at him with her long, acrylic, fingernails, scratching at his face and screaming at the top of her lungs. "You moron! You stupid, retarded, moron! Don't you ever fuckin' do that again!" Paul did his best to protect his face, but in her present condition Giselle attacked with total disregard as to how badly she might hurt her husband or herself. After two or three minutes of fighting off her incessantly flailing hands, Paul grabbed the keys out of the ignition and bailed out of the Mustang. He walked down the road, rubbing the painful, deep, scratches on his face, hands and arms. He turned to look back at the Mustang, wondering if Giselle might get out and come after him, but instead, through the windshield in the darkness of the car's interior he saw a flicker of fire which he knew was produced by the gold lighter one of her clients had given her. She had wasted no time in reloading and relighting.
    "Fine," he thought. Pulling his beat up, orange, Houston Astros cap down on his head, he headed for the nearest mailbox. Actually, he had to admit, she had come up with a pretty good idea when she suggested checking the mailboxes. She was smart. Fucked up, but smart. He chuckled briefly, marveling at how the two opposites, fucked up and smart could coexist so easily in one person. He regarded himself as sly and cunning, but
definitely not smart. Giselle was smart. That's why they stayed together he thought. But then he thought again, "She stays with me for the drugs. Otherwise she'd be gone, gone for sure." He shined the flashlight into the mailbox and saw eight or nine pieces of mail that hadn't been picked up by the residents of the house that was nestled about a hundred yards back from the road in a grove of tall pine trees. On the mail was the name, Goldsmith. Using the small flashlight Paul examined the mail in search of something he and Giselle could use, but at first glance found nothing that looked interesting. Rather than take any chances at passing up something good, he took all of the mail, except for a couple of advertising pieces and stuffed them under the waistband of his jeans.
      He turned and walked back towards the Mustang keeping a wary eye on Giselle, who, in the dark could barely be seen moving around in the passengers seat. Opening the driver’s side door he tossed the mail into the backseat and after giving Giselle a quick look, to see if she was calmed down, he settled into his seat. Reinserting the key into the ignition, he said, “This is the right place. I c-can’t believe we found it so easy.” He reached over and put the flashlight back into the glove box, started the Mustang up and turned into the long driveway, following it up to the point where it u-turned towards the left, into the carport. With the U-Haul attached to the back of the Mustang, Paul decided not to attempt the tight turn, instead he just pulled far enough forward to clear the wall of the carport so it wouldn’t block them when he was carrying shit out of the house. Everything seemed quiet, and this far back from the road even if a patrol car drove by, making its nightly rounds, nobody would be able to see anything that was going on. The carport was empty and there were no other cars anywhere to be seen.
    “So how do you know this place is empty tonight?” Giselle asked.
    Pulling on his gloves, Paul replied, “When I c-called them yesterday Mrs. Goldsmith told me they wouldn’t be able to see us about security until next week. She said her husband was in Atlanta and that she was flying up there with their d-d-daughter this morning to spend the rest of the week with him.”
    “Paul, how can people be so stupid?” Running her hands through her jet black hair, Giselle shook her head, partially in amazement at the sheer idiocy that people consistently demonstrated and partially to help clear her drug clouded mind. “I can’t believe they actually tell you this shit. Don’t they ever realize they might as well say, you can come over, take your time, and rob me blind?”
    “Some do, b-but I guess most of them just think a security company would run p-proper background checks on all of their employees. They d-d-don’t realize all these little dealers for the b-big companies have a tight budget and c-can’t afford drug testing and background ch-checks for t-telemarketers, and the companies just th-think that the telemarketers never see the customers, so they don’t wo-wo-worry about the type of p-people they are.”
    Paul swung the door open and started to get out as Giselle asked, “Are we gonna need this little flashlight again?”
    “M-M-Maybe,” Paul replied. “Go ahead and b-bring it.”
    She got it back out of the glove box and stuck it in her jeans. As she started to open her door, she saw Paul grab his switchblade from underneath the seat. “What are you bringing that for?” she asked, “I thought nobody was supposed to be home.”
    “Just in case,” Paul answered, looking around. “You never know.”
    Giselle agreed. For once, Paul was right. You never know. After getting out of the Mustang and closing the door, while she slipped on her gloves Giselle commented, “Every once in a while you show a glimmer of intelligence, Paul. Just a glimmer, mind you, but it always surprises me when you do."
    Paul walked over to the side entrance of the house to try the doorknob. “Yeah, well, let's get to work. You c-can tell me what a g-genius I am when we’re finished hauling out everything we want. Make sure you have your hair tucked under your hat. We can't go leaving DNA s-s-samples for the cops."  Paul reached into his back pocket, pulled out a credit card and held it up for Giselle to see. “M-M-Mister Patton is gonna get us into this house,” he said, as he slid Jim's Platinum Visa card down the edge of the door until it reached the latch, and exerting just enough pressure jiggled it while he turned the knob and pushed against the door. The door opened without so much as the slightest hint of a creak, as smoothly and easily as if a key had been used. Paul and Giselle were always amazed when they found doors that had no deadbolt locks. Not that they would let that stop them, but it would certainly force them to make more noise and exert a little more effort breaking in. In this case, if an entire family had been home asleep, the opening of this door undoubtedly would not have awakened even one of them. But the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway, followed by the opening of the door, had produced more than enough noise to catch the attention of a teenage boy. Particularly one who was staying up late, reading Stephen King and Peter Straub's descriptions of a cannibalistic murderer known as the Fisherman in their novel, "The Black House." Alone in his bedroom at the
back of the house due to an odd set of circumstances that had played out earlier that day, the sounds of the intruders caused the boy's hair to stand up on the back of his neck while cold beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
    Earlier that afternoon the youngest member of the Goldsmith family, fourteen year old Bobby, had been at his best friend's house and had gotten into an unusually animated squabble over who was the best quarterback in the history of the NFL. While Bobby had debated with conviction in favor of Dallas Cowboy legend Roger Staubach, his pal, Ernie Bernstein, had staunchly contended that Terry Bradshaw was unarguably the best ever, having led his Pittsburgh Steelers team to repeated Super Bowl victories. The friendly disagreement had escalated into a full-blown donnybrook, leading to Bobby storming out of the Bernstein home, where he had been supposed to spend the rest of the week. He figured he was old enough to fix himself something to eat and would just catch the bus to school in the mornings. Mrs. Bernstein had no idea that Bobby's parents and sister were out of town. All she had known was that earlier that day Ernie had run into the house and asked if Bobby could spend the night. He had neglected to say that Bobby actually needed to spend the rest of the week with them and because she had been busy at the time, she had said okay without hesitation and without wondering if perhaps the Goldsmiths might be leaving town. Normally Mrs. Goldsmith, whose first name was Norma, would have called to make the arrangements, but when her husband had called unexpectedly, asking her to come join him in Atlanta, she had been in too much of a hurry to take the time to track down Mrs. Bernstein, who always had her cell phone turned off anyway, unless she was ready to call someone. She left it up to Bobby to make the arrangements, while she packed and ran off to do some last minute shopping. Maybe she would find some nice lingerie at Victoria's Secret to please her husband that evening. By four that afternoon, she and her 17-year-old daughter, Susie, had headed for the airport, convinced that Bobby would have a great time with his best friend while they were gone.
    Ahhh, the best laid plans of mice and men…Bobby was most definitely not having a great time. Feeling as nervous as a cat in a dog pound, he cursed his best friend, Ernie, for arguing so vehemently in defense of Terry Bradshaw, he crept towards his closet to find and load the rifle, given to him by his dad last month for his birthday. He could hear his father's words, which at the time sounded almost too damn corny to listen to. "Bobby, never point a loaded gun at anything, or anyone, unless you intend to shoot it." With sweaty hands he reached for the cigar box on the top shelf in the closet, where he had put the ammunition. The rifle was just a .22, but at short range it was potentially lethal and certainly would tend to intimidate anyone who found themselves unexpectedly looking down the barrel. As he gingerly lowered the cigar box and placed it on his bed he could hear the voice of a man that sounded like it came from the living room.
    "Let's g-get these speakers first." Bobby heard a loud grunt, followed by, "God, these must weigh a t-t-ton! Antonio will get a k-kick out of these."
    After opening the cigar box with trembling fingers in the dim light provided by his small bedside lamp, Bobby began to load the rifle. The situation could have been worse. Tonight, for some reason, rather than stripping down to just his jockey shorts, while he lay under the covers reading, he had simply sat down on top of the bed, without pulling the covers back, and had remained in his jeans and Spiderman T-shirt, which for some reason made him feel more able to handle this situation. He also had decided to take his shower in the morning, instead of bathing before he went to sleep tonight. Hell, he could have been in the bathroom taking his shower when they broke in, then what chance would he have had? He thanked his lucky stars that he had closed the door to his bedroom, which he usually did for privacy, but tonight had been done purely out of habit. If it had been open the burglars would have known immediately that they weren't alone.
    Once the rifle was loaded a decision had to be made. Would he hide in his bedroom, perhaps in the closet until they eventually found him, or should he wait right behind the door with the rifle aimed at whoever might open it? Looking up at the Batman poster over his bed and the Spiderman poster that hung over his computer desk, he wished to God that he had taken those karate classes Ernie had suggested last summer. By now, he would have been much more sure of himself in hand to hand combat. Briefly, he wondered how many hours of practice Michael Keaton had put in daily, before doing the soon to be released film with Jack Nicholson about the resurrection of the Joker? The voice of the thief that he had heard before, once again penetrated his door, closer now than before. He was working his way down the hall. Now it sounded like he was in Susie’s bedroom.
    “Hey, th-there’s a really nice mirror in here, and a computer with a flat p-panel monitor! It’s a nineteen incher!”
    Bobby could hear the mirror scraping against the sheetrock as the robber lifted it off the hanger. Susie loved that mirror. Damn, if there were only some way he could stop this burglary he’d be a hero! Dad would probably buy him anything he wanted as a reward, and in the future anytime Susie gave him a hard time he could say, “Who saved your mirror?” He could just imagine his dad asking him what he would like to have as a gift for his bravery. He would ask for a car, sure, why not? His dad, who was the sales manager and a master negotiator for Newton Cadillac in Sugar Land, always said, “Start out big and then go down from there.” If he asked for something small, he would always wonder if something better would have been possible.
    Bobby envisioned the door being thrown open and a huge, intimidating, biker type dude, about six foot four, weighing three hundred pounds, dressed in black leather, looking in. Maybe he would be carrying a knife or a chain, yeah, maybe a chain. He would be scarred from numerous knife fights, probably bald, wearing a bandana on his head and would be missing several teeth, knocked out, no doubt, in bar room brawls over some biker babe. He might even have a patch over one eye.
    Rather than being trapped in the back of the bedroom he decided to move up near the door. He would be the first thing this monstrous, one eyed thug would see when the door was pushed, or maybe kicked open. He could hear approaching footsteps now and felt the sweat trickling down the sides of his face as he slowly raised the .22 rifle, pointing it at the door, aiming for the point where he figured the giant's head would be. Bobby’s eyes grew wide as the handle of the doorknob turned and the door began to swing open. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples as his finger tightened on
the trigger, ready to blow this crazed, steroid bloated, World Wrestling Federation wannabe all the way back down the hallway. He had gone over everything so carefully in his mind, he was prepared for the worst, he thought, but his eyes were not in any way prepared for what stood there looking at him.
    “Well, well, look what we have here,” Giselle said, with an amused smile on her face.
    "Stay where you are," Bobby ordered, "I'll shoot!"
    "Now, now," Giselle said shaking her head, and taking a step back. "You wouldn't want to shoot me, young man, now would you? We were just here to rob the place, not hurt anybody." Giselle took another step back, while Bobby took one towards her. She continued, saying, " We only take items that I'm sure you realize are insured, and are easily replaceable. Why your folks might even make a profit on the whole deal, depending on what kind of coverage they have. We had no idea there was anybody home. She took three more steps backward, passing Susie's bedroom, retreating slowly up the hallway with Bobby following her."
    "Where's the guy who's here with you?" Bobby demanded, still pointing the rifle at her.
    "He took a load of shit out to the U-Haul," she answered. "If you'll let me, I'll just turn around and go out the door and tell him we have to leave with what we have." Giselle and Bobby had reached the end of the hall by now and she turned slightly, pointing towards the door through which she and Paul had entered. "Just let us go, kid. We'll be gone and then you can call the police and tell everyone how you scared us away. You'll be a hero, uh, what did you say your name was?"
    "I'm the guy with the gun! That's all you need to know." Bobby sneered as his confidence began to grow, "Stay right where you are. You aren't going anywhere, either of you! Call to the other guy and tell him I've got a rifle, and that I'll shoot you if he doesn't start bringing everything back in!" 
    "Now c'mon, Guy with the Gun. Where are you going to shoot me? In the head?" She took off her cap, and shook her head, letting her black hair fall down around her shoulders. "In the forehead?" she pointed with her index finger, "or right in the face?"
    "That's for me to know, and you to find out," Bobby replied. “And unless you want to find out, I better start seeing stuff reappearing through that door, right away!"
    "How about a deal, Mr. Guy with the Gun? How about me giving you a little something, and you let us have what we've got?" Her silver tongue stud caught Bobby’s attention as she ran her tongue suggestively around the corners of her mouth. "What do you think, Mr. guy with the gun?" Waiting for his answer, she arched her eyebrows.
      Bobby’s mind wandered briefly, remembering the guys at school talking about how a tongue stud really made a blow job an unbelievable, almost life altering experience. He had spent more than a few sessions fantasizing with a Playboy in the bathroom, siphoning off the pressures that build up in a young man, imagining full, red lips, like the ones on this startlingly beautiful thief standing before him, parting to expose a glimmer of shining metal and wet,  pink, wiggling flesh, willingly slurping and sliding up and down on his rigid, ten inch, (okay it was really only six, if that, but the kid is fantasizing here) teen aged torpedo. He didn’t believe for one minute that any of his friends had ever had a real blow job, no way. He could be the first on his block...
      Refocusing his concentration, Bobby shook his head no, somewhat unconvincingly, and poked the gun at Giselle, saying, "I think you better start yellin' for that guy to bring our shit back in!"
    "How about a little sneak preview?" she suggested, lifting her shirt high enough to bare her flat belly and display the undersides of  her breasts, where they began to lift upward from her ribcage. Her eyebrows rose again as she waited to see if he wanted more of a show. This was fun. She smiled and winked. In fact, this was more than fun, this was thrilling. She loved to tease and torture men, or boys; Especially boys.
    Bobby was finding it harder to concentrate now, as the shirt in front of him lifted, tantalizingly close to the point of exposing a pair of firm breasts and hardened nipples that would undoubtedly rival any that he had seen in magazines or in the “Fuck Flicks” that he had watched over at Johnny Dugan’s house. Giselle gyrated her hips and slipped a finger into and back out of  her mouth almost causing Bobby to moan out loud and prompting him to think, "Damn, wouldn't Ernie love to see this." He motioned upward with the gun, his pubescent voice cracking with nervous anticipation as he said, "Pull that shirt up and let me see 'em!" Why not, he figured, he had the gun didn't he? He was in control here. His eyes widened and his little soldier lurched to attention, ready to perform, as Giselle grinned and obeyed his command. His eyes feasted on the sight like a starving immigrant gawking at a sumptuous buffet for the first time in his life, her flawless body demanding his complete and undivided attention. He never saw or heard
Paul, coming up from behind. He had been in Susie’s room the whole time, listening with amusement at the way Giselle toyed with her prey. Paul put the switchblade that he had brought in, "just in case," to quick use, reaching around and slashing the teenager's throat.
    "There," Paul said, releasing the dying youngster who dropped the rifle and fell to his knees amidst a pain and panic induced outburst of pitiful, choking, gurgling noises. He pitched forward, both hands futilely grasping at his fatal wound, thrashing about on the floor, writhing, as a dark pool of blood formed a widening, sticky circle on the freshly waxed, wooden surface beneath him. "Now we c-can get back to work.”
    "Stupid boy," Giselle said, pulling her shirt back down. Carefully stepping over the blood and the body, heading back down the hall to disconnect Bobby's computer, she added, "He reminded me of the kid we killed last Christmas."
      "Telemurdering"
      Chapter 12
         Antonio smiled with satisfaction as he watched his hogs, pushing and shoving against each other. The squealing, snorting and grunting in the pen reached a crescendo after he had dumped the last sack full of "special feed" into their trough. Over the noise he shouted, "Ahh, there's nothing like a tender teenager, right guys?" He turned away and began to whistle as he headed back to his house, contemplating the amount of money he would make from the sale of the most recent items Paul and Giselle had presented to him. On the steps of the old-fashioned wrap-around porch that stretched around the front and sides of his sprawling, nine thousand square foot, Victorian style home, he paused and removed his muddy boots. In the distance the sound of the pigs reminded him of the Velociraptors feeding on cattle in the Jurassic Park motion pictures.
      Opening the screen door he saw his wife, Maria, with a frying pan full of scrambled eggs, hurrying towards the kitchen table. Four-year-old Antonio, Jr. was perched upon his booster seat splashing his spoon into his cereal, while his baby sister, sixteen-month-old Carmelita, whined and wriggled in her high chair, unhappy with being imprisoned while mommy cooked, when she would rather be running around on the floor until her mother was ready to feed her and pay attention to her. Antonio bent down and gave his daughter a quick kiss on the top of her head as he passed behind her on the way to the kitchen sink, where he washed his hands, drying them on the cup towel that hung from the refrigerator door handle. Returning to the table, he sat down, surveyed the heaping mound of eggs, bacon and biscuits, smiled at Maria and said, "You are too good to me, vieja." He used the Spanish term, which meant "old lady," used commonly by chauvinistic men, comfortable with old world customs and ideals, who might love, but could never accept a woman as an equal. Making the sign of the cross, he bowed his head reverently and prayed, "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art
thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen."
    Raising her head while unclasping her hands, Maria waited as she always did for her husband to taste his food before she began to eat and feed the baby. She had so much for which to be grateful. Holding a spoonful of strained bananas in front of her daughter, she said, "The hogs were squealing so loud while you were out there, Antonio. Why were they so excited?"
    Antonio took a big bite of eggs and replied while still in the process of chewing, "Must be that new feed." He shook his head, reached for his cup of coffee and added, "They really fight for that stuff."
      A fight was brewing that morning at the home of Jeff and Nathan Piper, as Nathan tried to explain to Jeff what had made him feel it necessary to take the BMW into Houston. "I know it was him, Jeff. It had to be."
    "Why, Nathan? What makes you so sure?" Jeff wanted to know.
    "I told him we couldn't see one of his security people because we were going to be out of town over the weekend." Nathan looked down, ashamed of what he had done. "I know. That was stupid."
    "Stupid? Stupid? That description barely scratches the surface, Nathan! For God's sake, why didn't you just roll out a red carpet, and leave a note saying something like, take your time and take everything you want?"
    Feebly, Nathan added, "Unfortunately, there's more to it, Jeff."
    "What do you mean, Nathan?"
    "Well, when I was in Houston, I had, well, there was this black Lincoln, and I didn't realize how wide the Beamer's door swung open, and--"
    "What?" Jeff interrupted, "Are you trying to say you dinged someone's car door, because that just happens Nathan, everybody gets dings."
    "Actually, it was a little worse than a ding," Nathan revealed. "It was more like a really bad scrape, and there's black paint on the Beamer's door, too." Fearing the form of retribution Jeff might choose, Nathan squinted and ducked his head down, vaguely resembling a nervous turtle getting ready to retreat into its shell.
    Jeff was astonished to see that his brother actually seemed scared of his reaction. "Nathan, I'm not going to hit you, so relax and stop with the cringing, will you?"
    "Yeah, okay, but there's more, Jeff, and it's worse."
    "More?" Jeff wondered, "What do you mean by more, big brother?"
    Cringing again, Nathan said, "Well, ahhh, Jeez, Jeff, I'm really sorry man, but when I backed up at the security place, I hit a light pole, and it kinda slid along the rear side of the car for about four feet. It, uh, it looks pretty bad." Again Nathan hung his head, not wanting to look his brother in the eye. A good twenty or thirty second period went by without any response from Jeff, causing Nathan to sheepishly look up. What he saw was his brother with his elbows on the table and his head cradled in his hands, looking as if he was in a great deal of pain. "So what do you think, Jeff?" Nathan asked. “Should I pack my bags and move out? Jerry or Little Joe would probably let me stay with them for a while."
    Jeff brought his hands down from his face, leaned back in his chair and gave Nathan a hurt look, which Nathan interpreted as saying, "How could you?" But Nathan was misinterpreting the meaning of what Jeff was thinking. Jeff leaned forward again, and sighed. "You still haven't started taking your medicine, have you buddy?" he asked.Nathan looked back down, again, saying nothing. Jeff spoke up again, saying, "Nathan, I asked you a direct question and I expect a truthful answer."
    Nathan didn't look up, but said, "No," in a small, guilty sounding tone.
    "I didn't think you had," Jeff said, getting up from the table. "I got all of our prescriptions refilled, so I don't want to hear any excuses." He walked into the kitchen, reached up to open a cabinet door and twisted the child-proof cap off a large Walgreen's prescription drug bottle, which he grabbed off the top shelf. After tilting the bottle enough to allow one pill to spill into his palm, he replaced the cap and put the bottle back up where it had been. Next, he pulled down a Dixie cup from the dispenser near the sink. ""I think it's high time we stopped these apparitions, Nathan," Jeff said, as he opened the refrigerator and poured some ice water into the cup. He closed the refrigerator door, came back to the table, handed Nathan the cup, placed the pill in
Nathan's other hand, and said, "Here's the pill, partner. Down the hatch." Nathan looked up like a little kid in the doctor's office getting ready to get a shot, looking at his mom, hoping there might be some miraculous last minute reprieve that would spare him. "Don't look at me that way, Nathan," Jeff said. "This isn't going to hurt, and you know it."
    "But Jeff…"
    "Nathan, take the pill."
    "But Jeff…"
    "Do you want to discuss the Beamer and how you might pay for the damages?"
    He was trapped. He didn't want to get Jeff started on that subject, that was for sure. "Damn, Jeff, you know how I hate the way these things make me…"
    "Nathan," Jeff pointed at the hand that held the pill, "No more discussion, unless it's about the Beamer, I'll talk about that if you like. And what about that black Lincoln you messed up, you want to talk about that, too?"
    Defeated, Nathan slumped noticeably in his chair as he raised the hand with the pill and let it drop onto his tongue. He swallowed it with one big gulp from the five-ounce Dixie cup and opened his mouth wide, sticking his tongue out childishly to prove he had indeed swallowed the medicine. Jeff nodded his approval, saying, "Okay, now you've got another dose coming at around eight o'clock tonight. I've got to get going. I'm already late this morning."
    "Jeff, I'm really sorry about the Beamer," Nathan pleaded, "Please forgive me."
    Jeff picked his keys up out of the old Michelin tire ashtray that used to belong to his dad, and said, "Hey, it's just a car. But I think I'll take it with me today and get an estimate on the damage so that I can get it fixed. Now if I call home, am I going to catch you here, Nathan, or are you planning another trip?"
    Unenthusiastically, Nathan mumbled, "I'll be here."
    Jeff smiled, started to leave and then thought to turn back and pick up the keys to his truck. Holding them between his thumb and finger, he jiggled them in the air in front of Nathan and said, "Just in case you get any strange urges or any bad advice from any friends, real or imagined that might drop by." He slid the keys into his pocket and closed the door behind him.
    Nathan stared at the door thinking, “What if he’s right? What if Jerry and Little Joe are dead? What if I only see them because of my brain injury and what if I stop seeing them when this medicine starts to work?” He considered how he might feel, having to deal with the loss of his dear friends, and didn’t like the idea one bit. He got up from the table and headed up to his room. As he ascended the stairs he went back over the fact that during the time he had been on his medication he could not recall seeing them, at least not while he was awake. Maybe it was true after all. Upon reaching his room, he stopped and stepped back, shocked by what he saw. More tropical plants had appeared in his room, which was now beginning to take on the look of some kind of arboretum or  maybe even a rain forest exhibit like at the Moody Gardens in Galveston. How could this be? It was as if his room was turning into a jungle! Sitting on his bed, looking up at him the way patients look up in a waiting room when their names are finally called after a
lengthy wait, were Little Joe and Jerry.
    “What would you do, Nathan?” Jerry asked.
    “Yeah,” Little Joe added. “Let’s say we were dead. Let’s say that your brother’s right, and we just stopped appearing. Would it make your life better?”
    That was an easy question for Nathan to answer. He replied, “No. I’d miss you guys. Ever since Lindy left me, I don’t like being cooped up here, having to depend on other people to take me anywhere. It’s lonely and it’s boring. I’m always glad to see you.”
    “How nice of you to say that.” Jerry got up from the bed and walked over to one of the large plants. He took one of the big leaves in his hand, and asked Nathan, “How do you like the greenery?”
    Nathan looked at the plant, one of about six or seven which had appeared mysteriously in the corners of his room, growing out of  massive clay pots. He reached out to touch it, wondering how it got there without him knowing about it. This one must weigh several hundred pounds, and was about seven feet tall. “Is it real?” Nathan asked.
    “That’s a question you need to answer for yourself, Nathan. It’s been said that perception is reality, but that ain’t necessarily so.” Nathan reached out and stroked the large leaves, slightly surprised that his fingers didn’t simply go right through what he felt might be a hallucination or some kind of mirage. Rather than dematerializing, he found the plant had a texture, and even an earthy aroma emanating from the pot it grew in.
    “It’s real,” Nathan confirmed to himself, “No doubt about it. But, how’d you guys get it in here? It must weigh a ton!”
    “Who said we brought these plants, Nathan? Are they really real? Is the watch we gave you really real? Jeff couldn't see it, could he? Are we really real? Is this house really real? Is Jeff real? Were you ever married to Lindy? Is there a chance you might actually still be laid up in a hospital ward in Tulsa, slipping in and out of consciousness while the nurses care for you and the Nuns pray over you…”
    “Stop!” Nathan shouted. “That can’t be. That just isn’t possible!” He turned away from Jerry, and looked at Little Joe. “Why is he talking like that Little Joe? What’s he trying to prove?”
    Little Joe looked up from the bed, heaved a heavy sigh, and said, “You have to figure things out for yourself, Nathan. If you’re still lying comatose in that hospital, trapped inside of an injured brain that won’t let you reenter the real world, then maybe we can help you find your way out. On the other hand, if this house is real and you are here in Richburg, then maybe you’re just imagining us. And, if we’re just hallucinations, produced because your injured brain is not being properly medicated, then you probably ought to follow your brother’s admonitions and start taking your medicine. You can’t
deal with the real world by hiding in a hallucinated jungle fantasy where the smell of fish cakes puts you in a time and place occupied by monkeys that think they’re better off than you are. Come to think of it Nathan, the monkeys are right. You're sick, and you need to take your medicine, even if it means we disappear for good.”
    "But what about Paul Grand?" Nathan pleaded. "I can't fight him alone."
    "Semper Fi, Nathan. Jerry and I will always be with you. Whether or not there is, or ever was a watch on your wrist, we'll always be there for you. You do what you feel you have to do about that guy."
    "I don't know what's real and what's not! I'm so confused.” He put his hands over his eyes and then removed them, testing to see if Jerry, Little Joe, and the tropical plants would disappear.
      Little Joe spoke up from the bed where he still sat. "We're as real as you need us to be, Nathan, as real as you need us to be, for as long as you need us to be. Like the spirits my ancestors prayed to. They were there to fill our needs. That's the best way I can help you to understand what Jerry and I are all about. We're here to help, as long as you need us."
    "Now come on, are you trying to tell me you're, you’re ghosts?" The doubt on his face and in his voice was evident, but still, a part of him felt this was the only plausible explanation. He took a tentative step towards his friends and speaking softly, as if looking into the casket of a recently departed loved one, asked, "Are you really dead?" 
      Jerry and Little Joe shrugged, as they looked at each other and then back at Nathan. Jerry spoke up this time, saying, "Look, Nathan, you're so confused we probably couldn't convince you of anything right now. Hell, for all you know, you're dead too and this is some kind of purgatory where we're all being tested before we're allowed into paradise."
    Nathan's eyes grew wide at the thought. "Are you serious?" He asked. "Am I dead?"
    "No, Nathan," Jerry shook his head, and a touch of frustration crept into his voice as he said, "you're not dead, for Pete's sake. You know, sometimes there's such a thing as too much information coming at you too quickly. I think we need to let you get some rest today. Just remember, we're here for you as long as you need us to be." Jerry motioned to Little Joe, who got up off the bed and followed him down the stairs and out the front
door. Nathan stood at the top of the stairs watching them go. He wondered if they were really ghosts why did they have to go downstairs and out the door. Why didn't they just disappear, or do the old float through the wall trick? With his curiosity aroused,  intending to ask them that very question, he hurried downstairs after them and opened the front door, not more than thirty seconds after they had closed it. They were gone. 
    Now, Sam Stetson had the information he needed. Through his extensive network of old friends in the police department and the phone company he had procured the address and unlisted phone number of Paul Grand. Opening his glove box he made sure he had some extra ammunition for the pistols he carried. He was looking forward to paying Mr. Grand a visit tonight. Maybe Paul would be at work and he could speak to him there, but he still planned to go by the apartment as well.
    Sitting in the parking lot of Wylie's Cafeteria, waiting for Methuselah's family doctor, mechanic extraordinaire Cody Turner, he was listening to "Pretty Woman," by Roy Orbison. As an old couple shuffled along, hand in hand in front of him, on their way into Wylie's. He noticed the old man casting an admiring glance in Methuselah's direction. Sam gave him a wave and a smile. He didn't know the old man's name, but he had seen him here probably a hundred times. The scene of two people in love for so many years touched him and prompted him to think again how wrong Jim's disappearance and presumably death had been. Just as he was reaching into his jacket's breast pocket for his cell phone to call Mrs. Patton,  he saw her opening the glass doors to enter Wylie's, accompanied by a woman who looked to be in her late forties. He almost called out to Becky so that he could personally fill her in on the progress, or lack of it, concerning her husband's case, but he stopped himself, thinking that for a few minutes during lunch with a friend, she might prefer to dwell on happier thoughts. Sam imagined she had experienced precious few happy moments over the last few days and decided to call her after lunch. Behind him the horn of a black, ford truck, which looked as if it might be fresh from a monster truck rally caught his attention. He turned his head to see that the truck's driver was Cody Turner who was motioning for him to come inspect his vehicle. Sam grabbed his hat off the seat and got out to take a closer look at this hi-rise phenomenon. 
    As Sam sauntered up, Cody looked down, grinning, and asked, "So, what do ya think?"
    Sam didn't quite know what to say. He took a quick glance at the huge tires that came up to his chest, and then peeked under the truck, which barely necessitated bending over. Straightening back up, with a sardonic look, he inquired, "Do you get nosebleeds if you come down too fast?"
    "No," Cody chuckled, as he swung the door open and climbed down. "But I'll tell you Sam, this thing is a chick magnet!"
    As they began to walk towards the cafeteria, Sam asked doubtfully, "A chick magnet, huh? Why do you think that is?"
    "It's the height, man. They all want to get up in that cab and look down on the world. I can't begin to tell you how much action I've gotten in that truck."
    "Good," Sam replied.
    "You bet it's good. It's great!"
    "No, Cody, I mean good that you can't begin to tell me about all the action you're getting, because an old coot like me has been there and done that, and I'm a lot more interested in what else you might be able to do for Methuselah, than what you've been doin' in the cab of that rollin' skyscraper.
    When they had selected a clean table and were seated Sam took off his gray felt hat and laid it on the seat next to him. Sam had chosen chicken fried steak with gravy,  mashed potatoes, fresh green beans, and a piece of Texas toast. Tearing open the blue packets of Equal to sweeten his tea he shook his head and said, "Ah shoot!"
    "What's wrong?" Cody asked.
    "I meant to get me a glass of water and load it up with lemon, instead of havin' to pay for tea. I have some friends, who are pretty good at pinchin' pennies that taught me to do that recently, but I still forget sometimes." He picked up the wedge of lemon he had for his tea and was in the process of squeezing it when the slippery piece of fruit flew out of his grasp. Propelled across the table, it landed in Cody's bowl of tortilla soup with a splash. "Betcha I couldn't do that again if I tried," an embarrassed Sam said, as Cody dampened his napkin, dipping it into his glass of water, and began dabbing at the newly created stains on the front of his light blue, Firestone mechanic's uniform.
    Marilyn, the chatty, redheaded, tea and coffee cart lady happened to come by at that moment and asked Cody, "Could you use another napkin, honey? My goodness, you really did get it all over yourself, didn't you? Maybe you should go to the restroom and run some water on it."
    Sam saw by now that Cody was taking the accident fairly good naturedly, and said, "The boy just hasn't quite mastered eatin’ with a spoon, Marilyn. I don't know why I let him have that soup. Do you have a bib somewhere on that cart?"
    As he stood to head for the restroom, Cody said, "I must have misunderstood, Sam. I thought you said you were going to buy lunch for me, not throw lunch at me!" 
    Cody had just walked away and Marilyn had moved on to the next table, when Becky Patton walked up and asked, "How are you doing today, Mr. Stetson?"
    Sam stood up politely and replied, "Well I'm doin’ okay, but anyone within a table's distance of me today isn't safe. I just…"
    Becky interrupted Sam, saying, "I saw the whole thing. Remind me not to get soup, or at least provide me with a towel,  if I'm ever going to be eating right across from you. Hopefully, you're having a little better luck in looking into Jim's disappearance." 
    "Well, yes," Sam answered, "but not much, I finally got a telephone number and an address for a person who could possibly be involved, and I'll be headin' back into Houston later today to see if I can catch up with this fella. I saw you and that lady friend that came in here with you as I was gettin' out of Methuselah, and I was gonn'a call you after you had had a chance to eat and chat with her for a while. I didn't know if maybe you'd prefer to have a nice lunch without havin' to think about--"
    Becky cut him off again, saying, "That was nice of you, but I'm on pins and needles--"
    This time Sam interrupted Becky, putting up his hand, and saying, "Mrs. Patton…"
    "Call me Becky, please," she asked.
    "Okay, Becky, I wish to heck you wouldn't be on pins and needles right now. This thing could take a while, you know. I understand that you're anxious to hear somethin', and I assure you that I'm devotin' all of my workin' time towards this case."
    "I appreciate that, Sam. Promise me you'll call me whenever you know something. No matter what time it is. I'm not sleeping too good, anyway. It's sort'a difficult, when you've been used to having someone in bed next to you for thirty one years, and then…"
    Sam reached out and patted his client's shoulder sympathetically. "We're gonn'a get to the bottom of this Becky. We'll find out for sure what happened."
    "Thanks Sam, I believe you. I'm going to go back and finish my lunch with my sister. That's her over there," she pointed towards a table against the far wall. "Her name is Marla.” From across the cafeteria Marla waived, and Becky turned to go. She stopped after a couple of steps and turned back around to say, "You be careful Sam."
    "I will Becky, and thanks for your concern."
    "No, I mean with those lemons. You could hurt somebody," she smiled, and put her hand up to her mouth to hide a giggle.
    The unexpected humor caught Sam completely by surprise, and he laughed out loud, drawing the attention of a number of people at nearby tables. "That's the first time I've seen you smile today, Mrs. Patton. It sure is a welcome sight. I hope you'll be doin’ a lot more of that in the near future."
    "That's Jim's influence," she said, "He would say the funniest things when you would least expect it." Her smile began to fade as she added, "I miss that." Sam sat back down as she turned again and headed back to where her sister sat, passing Cody on the way. Cody was carrying a clean, dry napkin, which he had picked up from Marilyn and had a large wet circle on the front of his uniform as he sat back down to resume his lunch.
    "Are you sure you got it all?" Sam asked, smiling sheepishly as he scooped up a spoonful of mashed potatoes.
    "Yeah, I think so," Cody said, placing the napkin in his lap and picking up his soup spoon. "I hope you're through fixing your tea."
    "Yes sir, I believe I am Cody, and hey, I am sorry about that flying lemon thing." Sam leaned forward and twirling one corner of his bushy mustache said, "Now, let's talk about Methuselah for a minute if you don't mind. What else do you think we could do to improve the way he handles?"
    At the Safe Sentry offices that afternoon, Jerry Dobbins told Sam that he hadn't heard from Paul. "I imagine the next time we'll see him," Jerry calculated, "if he's hiding out for some reason, will be this Friday. That's when the checks are cut for the whole telemarketing crew. He's usually the first one to pick up his check. Then he runs to the bank and tries to deposit it before Giselle can find out how much it was for, or can get a hold of it. He has a separate account that she doesn't know exists, otherwise they'd never have enough to pay the rent, or so he says. Now don't go jumping to any conclusions. He's gone off like this before, Sam. His being absent doesn't necessarily mean he's hiding from us or the law. He may have a perfectly good alibi." A knock on the door interrupted them and Jerry spoke up so that the person on the other side could hear him, “What is it?”
    “The door opened just enough for Max to stick his head in. “Jerry,” Max whined, “You’ve got to do something about Dean. I just can’t work in conditions like this.”
    “What has he done this time?” Jerry asked.
    “It’s the bathroom. You can’t go in there. Nobody can. It’s, it’s…” he made a noise as if he might throw up, and then regained his composure to the point where he could speak again. “It’s nauseating, it’s, it’s…”
    “Okay, Max,” Jerry waived a hand as he interrupted, “I get the point, I’ll see to it.”
    Helplessly shaking his head, Jerry turned back to Sam as Max withdrew his balding, bearded, countenance and closed the door. “This is what they pay me for Sam, I’m no more than a janitor. When a salesman lies to a customer, or when Dean leaves the coffee bar or restroom unusable, they come to me.  Branch manager is just a respectable title for the guy who is here to clean up the shit, and get rid of the stink.”
    Sam shook his head sympathetically, and said, “It’s a tough job, Jerry, that’s why they pay you the big bucks, but gettin’ back to the likelihood of Paul’s alibi bein’ believable, maybe it will be and then again maybe it won’t,” Sam leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. "I'm not sayin' his alibi, whatever it might turn out to be, is pure bullshit. I'll wait till I hear it before I can say that, but you've got to admit that right now, especially with him being missin', somethin' sure smells funny and it's drawin' flies, and I’m not refferin’ to the problem Max brought to your attention." Sam unclasped his hands from behind his head, took a look at his watch and said, "It's about three thirty, Jerry, wouldn't Paul usually be here by now, if he were comin'?"
    "You're talking as if we were discussing the habits of a normal person, Sam. These are telemarketers. Who knows why they are so unpredictable, but they are. They're a whole different breed. If they weren't, then I doubt that they would be telemarketers."
    Sam stood up, and asked for further clarification, "So you're sayin' this is a common trait among the species?"
    "Yeah, pretty much," Jerry agreed. "Oh, there are exceptions, but most people become telemarketers because for some reason, something has happened to them that causes them to be unable to hold a quote, normal job, unquote," he held his hands up, and bent the first two fingers, on each hand, to mimic quotation marks. "Donnie has his bad back, which forces him to have a sit down kind of job. Max is an extremely intelligent and articulate individual, but because of something that occurred in his past, he's become somewhat of a recluse who can't handle turmoil and face to face confrontations. Dean is a; well, he's a mess to put it mildly, and then there's Paul. These people are relatively productive at what they do, in fact most normal people, (he raised his hands again and made the quotation mark signs) couldn't or wouldn't take the rejection these guys put up with on the phones, but they would be severely affected if legislation, further restricting telemarketing, were passed. Especially Paul, I can't imagine what else he could do."
    "Sell drugs," Sam suggested. "Or maybe rob people and kill them."
    Jerry stood from behind his desk and shook his head in disagreement, "Quit trying to put the cart before the horse, Sam. So far, no weapon has been found and no corpse has been discovered. All we know, for sure, is that we have a missing person. The Houston Police Department is working on it."
    "They aren't going to find anything, Jerry. You know that." Picking his hat up off the round table, Sam pushed it down on his head.
    "No, Sam, I don't know that. I'm still hoping that Jim might show up."
      Ready to leave, Sam extended his hand and clasped Jerry's firmly, while patting his shoulder with his left hand. "Uh-huh, and I'm still hoping to hit the lotto."

    Thirty minutes later, after knocking on what he assumed to be Paul Grand's apartment door, Sam waited to see if anyone was home. To his left he saw the mini-blinds part ever so slightly, as someone peeked out to see who was at the door. He knocked again, and said, "Hello in there, I need to see either Mr. or Mrs. Grand. I have some cash money that is owed to them." He waited a minute and knocked again, repeating his message about wanting to deliver some money to Mr. or Mrs. Grand. He was just about to turn and go upstairs to question some of the neighbors about the comings and goings of the Grands, when he heard the lock on the door being turned.
    The face of a black, teenaged girl peered through the small opening and asked, "Who are you?"
    Sam stepped back so as not to intimidate the girl, and said, "I'm the guy who wants to give Mr. or Mrs. Grand some money. Are they home?"
    Keeping the door ajar just enough to see through, the girl answered, "No," and then asked, "How much money you got fo them?"
    "Well, now, that's between me and them, but I'll tell you what, I might be able to find a ten dollar bill for you, if you'll help me. What did you say your name was?"
    “I didn’t say, but it’s Sally.” Suspiciously, she asked, "What I gott'a do?"
    "If you could answer a few easy questions," he reached into his pants pocket and held up a ten, "this here legal tender could find a new home in your pocket instead of mine."
    Sounding just as suspicious as before, but with a hint of curiosity mixed with greedcreeping into her voice, the girl opened the door a little wider, where Sam could see two eyes instead of one, and asked, "Whatchew wann'a know?"
    "Well, for starters, what time are you expecting Mr. and Mrs. Grand?"
    "They told me they'd be home by nine tonight," she answered. "There, now give me my money." 
    "Not so fast young lady, I'm kind'a curious to know what are you doing here?"
    "I'm babysitting fo Richard. He's their baby. Now, cut the shit and give me my money. I ain't answerin' no mo questions."
    Sam could smell the distinctive residual odor of Crack cocaine emanating from inside the apartment, and asked, "Have you been smokin' crack, young lady?"
    "The girl shook her head and emphatically said, "No, it ain't me be smokin' crack, here. I don't mess with that shit. What are you, anyway, you some kind of cop?"
    "No, I'm no cop. I just get worried about young people." He could see that her eyes were too clear for her to be stoned. "By any chance,” Sam wondered, "do you ever remember seeing what might be considered drug paraphernalia lying around in this apartment?"
    The girl looked down as if embarrassed, or perhaps unable to lie while looking someone in the eye. "I don't remember," she replied.
    "My apologies for bothering you," Sam tipped his hat, politely, and added, "I'll come back later when Mr. or Mrs. Grand are here, so that I can hand over the cash I have for them."
    He turned to leave, but stopped, as the girl shouted out, "Hey Cowboy, you said you was gonn'a gimme a ten for answering those questions!"
    "Ahhh, yes, the memory improves," Sam chuckled as he turned back around. "I'll tell you what young lady, I'll magically turn this ten into a twenty if you can supply me with the work number for Mrs. Grand." He reached into his pants pocket and produced a twenty dollar bill, which he waved back and forth while waiting for an answer.
    Looking crestfallen, the girl's gaze fell from the twenty to the ground, as she said "I can't remember her work number," then she looked back up at the twenty, which Sam continued to wave in front of her eyes, slowly, back and forth, back and forth.
    Seeing how much the babysitter wanted that twenty, Sam turned the bill around, and spoke to it, saying, "What's that President Jackson? You think Sally’s tryin’ to protect someone? Why would she do that? Well, okay, I'll ask her." He looked at the teenager, and asked, "Are these people so good to you, young lady, that you feel compelled to withhold the rather innocuous information that I've requested, even if it means puttin' old Andrew Jackson, here, back in my pocket instead of yours?" That quirky, crooked, smile became discernible under his mustache, as he pondered the chances of this young lady knowing the meaning of innocuous, but then he figured, so what. In her world what would it get her if she did? She’d probably be ridiculed if she were to ever use such a word around her peers. He waved the twenty through the air again, and said, "Going, going…"
    "Okay, I'll tell you," once again, Sally eyed him warily, "but if you're a cop, she'll kick my ass, God damn it! Don't you tell her how you got dis phone number, you hear me? She's a ho, man, and if I send a cop after her, I'll be lucky if all dey do is just cut me. She's da one doin' all da crack, but dat Mr. Grand, he's a weird mother fucker. I don't trust him, and I don't like da way he looks. Not one bit. Wait fo just a minute, and I'll git you dat number."  She turned away from the door, leaving it ajar, cussing as she went, "God damn it, I'm gonna regret dis." Sam stepped forward quickly, pushing the
door gently, to allow him a better view of the inside. The place was a shambles, but, in a corner, he saw expensive stereo equipment stacked up against a wall, that looked as if it might have been hurriedly placed there. Could it have come from a burglary? He pushed the door open a little further, wondering what else he might see. Just as he peered around the door the teenager reappeared, wide eyed and angry. "I know I didn't just see yo ass
peeking around…"
    Sam backed up and bowed, saying, "A thousand pardons Ma’am. I was just makin’ sure you weren't bringin’ reinforcements to kick my old cowboy ass." She held a piece of paper out to him, which he took and read out loud, "Hmmm, 713-555-1369." He looked up and asked, "So this is where she works, it's not her cell phone number?" 
    "Naw, she lost her cell phone. Dat woman's always losing shit. She's smart, but she got's dat problem all crackheads get. She can't remember shit, you know? Dat number rings at da Jade Pillow, over near Chimney Rock and Richmond."
    As he handed her the twenty, Sam said, "Much obliged, mam." He tipped his hat cordially and turned to head back towards Methuselah.
    As he walked, he heard the teenager call out, "Yo, you better not be a cop, or this twenty might end up with my next of kin!"
    Back in Methuselah, Sam dialed the number he had been given. After four rings, a female voice answered, “Jade Pillow, what’s your pleasure?”
    Sam asked, “Is there a young lady there by the name of Giselle? I have a friend that recommended her as being, shall we say, quite skilled, at providing stress relief.”
    “Why yes,” the voice replied, “there is a Giselle working here. Would you like to make an appointment?”
    “Well,” Sam continued, “I was kind’a hopin’ to drop by this evenin’ if she was gonn’a be there.”
    “Hold on, I’ll see,” music by Hall and Oates began to play as soon as he was put on hold, Sam chuckled at the words of the song, “Watch out boy, she’ll  chew you up, whoa here she comes, she’s a man eater…” He stayed on hold through the rest of that song, and half of J. Geils, “My Angel is the Centerfold,” when the girl who had originally answered came back on the phone and said, “Giselle will be here until two in the morning, but she’s booked up until seven forty five. Would you like to go ahead and make a reservation for that time?”
    “Sure thing.” Sam answered, and then asked, “How much is your door fee?”
    “It’s sixty dollars, and then you can discuss any tips or special services you might require with Giselle when you get into your private room. We do accept all major credit cards, you know, so if you’re a little short on cash…”
    Sam thanked her for the information, told her he would be there at a quarter ‘til eight and said his name was Kenny. He closed his cell phone and slid it into his jacket pocket. As he tugged and twirled one corner of his mustache, he thought, “This should be interestin’.”
    Parking at the Jade Pillow was an adventure in itself. You had to go down a strip of cracked and sunken concrete barely wide enough for a car until you reached the back of the building, where the lighting was so dim it was difficult to see once you got out of your car. “Good place for an armed robbery or a car theft” Sam thought, as he locked Methuselah. Cody had suggested an alarm system for Sam’s car, which Sam had rejected due to his extreme dislike of the honking, embarrassing annoyances he had seen other cars become, which nobody had so much as touched. A good gust of wind or a rumble of thunder would sometimes trip the alarms if they were set too sensitively, however, right now, he admitted to himself that it would have made him feel a little better if he had one. He had left both of his guns in the glove compartment in the unlikely circumstance of metal detectors at the entrance to this “relaxation spa.”
    Upon reaching the front door, he pulled and found it to be locked. Looking around, his eyes fell upon a sign that read, “Ring Bell before entering,” which he did, and then pulled on the door again, after hearing a buzz followed by a click, which indicated the lock was deactivated. Sam had been in places like this before tracking down information from the seedy characters that worked in them. They entry areas were always dark, with leather couches and a glass coffee table adorned with pornographic magazines, supposedly to create an alluring, sexy mood, but Sam felt it was also, undeniably, intended to hide the imperfections in appearance of the frequently less than gorgeous employees, as they greeted their leering prospects from behind a bulletproof glass cutout.Tonight the dark-haired woman who appeared behind the glass surprised Sam. She was not your average hooker. She was neither gaunt nor grossly overweight. Her complexion was clear and her makeup was expertly applied. The black, low-cut gown which she
wore, exposing a generous, but not overtly licentious amount of bosom, would have been considered acceptable at any formal dance, and her speech indicated a formal education rather than a white trash or ghetto background.
    “Hi,” she began. “Do you have an appointment this evening, or is this one of those spur of the moment things?” 
    “I have an appointment,” Sam replied, “I called earlier to request some time with a young lady named Giselle.”
    “Giselle?” She asked. “Why Giselle? Do you know her, perhaps, from a previous visit?”
    “I was told by a friend that she was worth every penny I could drum up.”
    “Really? How delightful, we just love referrals. If you’ll just mention your friend’s name, we’ll be sure to extend some additional courtesies to him during his next visit.” Picking up what appeared to be a black, Mont Blanc fountain pen, but could just as easily have been a knock-off, the girl behind the glass opened up what appeared to be a large register book and then glanced back up at Sam. “Well, honey, what’s his name? You do want him to be rewarded properly the next time he comes in, don’t you?” She arched an eyebrow, for emphasis.
    “I’m not at liberty to give his name, Miss…” Sam waited for the elegant prostitute to offer her name.
    “Giselle, darling. I am Giselle. And who might you be?”
    “My name’s… Kenny,” Sam replied, almost forgetting the cover name he had given earlier. Although shocked by the sheer pulchritude of this woman and the refined way she conducted herself, he knew what to expect. Once the customer had paid the door fee, was determined not to be from the vice squad and was thought of as a relatively safe risk, he would be escorted through another door and down a hallway, to a darkened room, furnished, in all likelihood, with a portable CD player and a sleeper sofa or a bed, or sometimes just a couch with removable cushions that could be thrown onto the floor to make a soft place to do business. Next to the couch would be a nightstand with plastic bottles of lotion, spray disinfectant and a stack of towels. The drawers in the nightstand would be filled with condoms and other useful tools of the trade, such as vibrators and floppy rubber dildos of various colors and sizes.
    “Kenny, have you ever been here before?”
    “No, Sam replied, “but I am impressed.”
    “It really is a nice place,” she said, looking back down, and closing the large book.
    “No, I didn’t mean the place,” Sam said, “I meant by you. You’re different than what I expected.” He wanted to get her to drop her guard as much as possible.
    “She looked up again. “Oh, how?” She asked.
    “Most of the ladies who work in places like this are too thin, or too fat, or are missing a few teeth, or most of their marbles…”
    “Then that’s all that you think is special about me, the fact that I have all my teeth?” She pouted and batted her eyelashes, waiting for further compliments.
    “No, I like the way you present yourself. Classy, refined, articulate.”
    She liked that, and smiled as she said, “Why thank you, Kenny. Now, if you’ll just pay me the door fee, we can go back to a nice, private, room, and get to know each other better. Just slip the money into the metal tray, right under the glass, here,” she pointed.Sam did as he was told, sliding three twenties under the glass. It was just like getting your tickets at the multi-plex cinema. As the door opened that led back to the individual rooms, he fantasized that a young man, at a turnstile, might appear, handing out tickets, and instructing patrons to go to the right or the left, but no, that wasn’t the case. Instead, Giselle appeared at the door, looking even more elegant, now that she wasn’t partially hidden behind a wall, and bullet proof glass. “Don’t just stand there gawking, cowboy, you know what they say, time is money.” She extended her right hand and crooked her finger. “Don’t make me get a rope, now,” she said, “unless you like that kind of thing.” Sam looked around for his hat, and remembering he had left it in Methuselah,
followed Giselle through the door and down the hallway.
    The walls of the hallway were adorned with what were intended to be classy, erotic, expensively framed, pictures of famous women, in the nude. Sam recognized Marilyn Monroe, and Kim Basinger. As he passed two doors, he could hear the muffled sound of sensuous music pulsing from within the private rooms where customers were receiving the exotic “show” they had paid for. Giselle opened the third door they came to, and stepped aside, allowing Sam to enter before her. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said, “after you’ve had a chance to get comfortable. Glancing down at his Tony Llamas, she continued, “I’ve known a few cowboys that like to keep their boots on,  but when I get back I want you to have made yourself as comfortable as a skinny dipper at Hippy Hollow.”
    Sam knew what she meant. In fact, before he had joined the Marines back in 1966, he had visited the popular Lake Travis area hangout for pot smoking flower children with his high school sweetheart, Suzanne Atkinson, the only girl he really ever loved until he met Amanda. As he sat down on the shiny black leather couch and looked around, he fondly remembered how Suzanne had shocked him that day. He had figured no amount of pleading or cajoling would get her to peel off her bikini, which he assumed she was wearing under her shorts and blouse. Much to his surprise she had not been wearing anything under those clothes, and had eagerly stripped down to the buff as soon as they had parked, running to the edge of the water, jiggling, giggling, and shouting for Sam to hurry up and get naked. How he had loved Suzanne’s crazy, daring spontaneity. Gazing down at the dark green carpet, he remembered that when he had returned from Vietnam he learned that Suzanne had moved to California and was living with the drummer of
some rock and roll band.
    Amanda had been like that when they first started dating, and for the first couple of years that they were married. He wondered what had happened to that wonderful wild side she had so brazenly displayed on so many occasions. Making love in a public restroom, in a carwash, in an elevator, on a beach, and then, then it had just stopped. She had told him that she had grown up and matured and that he should do the same. “Well, that was the beginning of the end,” Sam thought. He recalled that Amanda had begun to see herself as more than just a mother and the wife of a homicide detective whose main joys in life consisted of work, riding horses and restoring classic cars. More and more she listened to the opinions of the two lawyers who employed her as a legal secretary. They had told her he was holding her back, keeping her from reaching her potential. Sam had been as supportive as he could force himself to be when she had resumed her college classes in hopes of obtaining a degree in law. He knew she was smart enough to become a competent attorney, but he didn’t like the way she began to act when she was with him; the way she judged him; the way she began to look down on him. It was basically the fault of those two assholes he had seen her with last night. Damn those bastards! But he knew it was his fault as well, his unwillingness to change, or to even try. He hadn’t changed and wasn’t going to. He wasn’t about to try to be something he didn’t want to be. He was who he was, and if she didn’t think that was good enough for her anymore, “Then so be it,” he thought.
    The opening of the door and reappearance of Giselle interrupted Sam’s memories.  She had changed from her black, beaded gown, into a short, black, see through negligee revealing a black, push-up bra and thong. On her head she now wore a black cowboy hat and she had shed her high heels in favor of a black pair of Western styled boots, suitable for a date at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo.
    “Damn, Kenny,” she said, the look on her face changed from adventuresome and confident, to confused. “I thought for sure you’d be ready to ride tall in the saddle. What’d you do, forget how to work your zipper and unbutton your shirt?”
    “No ma’am,” Sam answered, “I guess I should’a let you know, before you went to all the trouble of pullin’ out your bronc ridin’ gear, that I’m not your average customer.”
    Giselle placed her right hand flat against her bare thigh, and drew an imaginary pistol from an imaginary holster. “So, you don’t intend to get undressed?” she inquired, her index finger aiming at Sam, with her thumb cocked high in the air. Sam nodded, indicating that was indeed what he was saying. “Well,” Giselle asked, “does that mean you’re weird, or gay, or what? Every once in a while I get a talker who’s either too twisted or too shy to get it on, but buster let me tell you the old saying that talk is cheap doesn’t apply here. Even if all you want to do is talk, you’re gonn’a have to come up with another $120.00 or this conversation is over. Now, hand over that loot partner, or do I have to gun you down?” She fired her finger gun, for emphasis, “Bang, bang!”
    Sam chuckled and reached into his wallet, which produced a satisfied smile on Giselle’s face. She sashayed over to the portable CD player, which sat on a glass table, and picked several CD’s that were laying next to it. “Ahhh, here’s the one,” she said, opening the jewel case and placing the CD in the player. “This is the one I think you’ll like Kenny, it’s a bunch of different singers like Shania Twain, Faith Hill, and the Dixie Chicks.” The music started to play and Giselle began to gyrate, untying the bows that held her negligee together and tossing it aside. Turning around and looking over her
bare shoulder, she asked, “Okay, you wann’a talk? Just put the money on the night stand, and start talking, honey.” She bent over; making sure Sam got a good look at her shapely rear, took off her cowboy hat, and tossed it between her legs, onto the couch, where it landed next to Sam. Straightening back up, she shook her head, tossing her shiny jet-black hair to and fro as she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra.
    Sam squirmed as he debated the wisdom of telling her to stop or letting her continue.  If he stopped her she might become suspicious. Well, he would just have to try to keep his mind on business and play it by ear.
    Tossing her bra aside, Giselle whirled back around to face Sam, her firm breasts swaying slightly as she continued to dance, her eyes fixed on his, studying his reaction. She said, “If at any time you feel compelled to stop talking, Kenny, let me know. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard a peep out of you yet. What’s the matter? Is all the blood draining out of your brain and heading south? That’s what they say, you know. Men don’t have enough blood to run both their brains and their dicks at the same time. It has to be one or the other. Which one is it going to be right now, Kenny?”
    “Giselle,” Sam asked, cautiously, “are you on good terms with your husband?”
    She had slid her thumbs under the thin straps of her thong, and had stretched them out, the way a proud Irishman might stretch out his suspenders. With surprise registering on her face, she stopped dancing and let the straps snap back against her skin. “Who said I was married?” she asked, suspicion spreading across her face, appearing like the details of a picture floating in a tray of developing solution in a professional photographer’s darkroom.
    “Well,” Sam said, “I met him at that alarm company the other day, and saw that revealin’ picture of you on his desk. It kind’a caught my eye and we got to talkin’.”
    The confident smile returned to Giselle’s face, and she asked, “Is he the one who referred you?” She began to dance once again, and laughed as she said, “You don’t have to protect him. That’s nothing for you to worry about. He refers his friends to me all the time.” She stood less than a foot in front of Sam now; arching her shoulders back, which jutted her breasts forward and up. “Here,” she said, cupping her right breast in her hand while inching ever nearer, “try one of these perfect pacifiers, baby, and let me give you a really good show.”
      Sam raised his hand to intercept the nipple headed directly towards his mouth. Shocked and wide-eyed, Giselle stepped back, as Sam said, “Pardon me, ma’am, but I didn’t come here for pleasure tonight. I came here with a business proposition for you and your husband. I want to see if you and Paul might consider doing a job for me.”
    With both her suspicions and curiosity acutely aroused, Giselle asked, “What kind of job, Kenny? And why did you need to talk to me here about it?”
    Sam tugged on his mustache and answered, “It’s a really big job, and I have to know the people I’m dealin’ with. I have to know if I can trust ‘em.” Silently, Sam thought to himself, “I’d sooner trust a rabid pit bull.” He was working on a hunch, based on the fact that Paul could be getting information from unsuspecting security alarm prospects concerning who had security and who didn’t, not to mention who was going to be out of town. Sam remembered reading about a case involving twenty, or more, burglaries in Colorado and discussing it with Jim Patton, where an alarm monitoring center employee gave out customers’ secret security codes to her boyfriend, who then entered homes, whenever he saw that they were empty and simply disarmed the system, using the code his girlfriend had given him. After seeing the expensive stereo equipment stacked in one corner of the apartment earlier that day, while Sally had gone to look for Giselle’s work phone number, Sam had put two and two together. He was hoping they added up to four.
    Even in the darkened room Sam could see the fresh white burn marks, caused by a hot glass crack pipe, on Giselle’s lips. Her glazed eyes further confirmed that she had the habit, and judging by the fact that she was both smart and beautiful Sam figured it must be an unbelievably expensive one. Why else would she hang around with Paul? Why else would she be here? She needed all the money she and Paul could lay their hands on to keep her happy and high.
    “I happen to know,” Sam said, “of a very wealthy couple who will be goin’ out of town for a couple of weeks, and I thought you two might be interested in helpin’ me move their antique gun and coin collections. I understand they, along with the lady of the house’s jewelry, may be worth over a million dollars.”
    Giselle stopped dancing, bent over, picked up her bra, and then walked over to the couch where she grabbed her cowboy hat and flung it back across the room. Next, she selected a clean, white towel from the stack on the nightstand and laid it down on the couch next to Sam before sitting on top of it. “Damn leather couches,” she complained, as she crossed her legs, “so cold on a bare ass.”
    Sam continued, “What do you think, Giselle, with all of those antiques and jewels, I bet those poor people are stressed out, constantly worryin’ about the safety of their precious belongin’s. Don’t you think you and Paul should relieve them of all that stress by relievin’ them of their burden? Isn’t that what you’re an expert at, anyway? Stress relief?”
    “Now Kenny,” Giselle wondered, putting her hand on his knee, “how come Paul hasn’t said shit about this to me?”
    “He doesn’t know about it, yet,” Sam replied. “He and I just talked in generalities. I don’t mean to be rude, but after speaking to Paul, I thought he was probably the brawn, and you might be the brains of the operation. Was I right?”
    Giselle smiled, and said “You’re pretty smart, cowboy.” Her hand began to travel, sliding slowly, slyly, subtly, slipping from Sam’s knee to his thigh and beyond. He reached down to stop her just before she ran completely out of leg.
    Smiling tolerantly, Sam suggested, “I think we should keep this meeting on a professional level.” 
    Giselle’s eyes narrowed as her intuition told her something was very wrong with this “talker,” and the deal he proposed. Paul would have mentioned something about this guy, she was sure of it. Her instincts screamed “COP,” and kept screaming, overriding the greed within her that wanted his story to be true.
    Sam could see the restless unease building on Giselle’s face and said, “Look, I can understand why you might feel a little jittery about talking to someone comin’ in here dressed in a business suit, but chances like this don’t come along every day. Were talkin’ about a job where our take could be close to a quarter of a million dollars, and I’m willin’ to split everything right down the middle with you guys, fifty fifty, even though I’m the one with all the inside info.”
    Giselle crossed her arms and said, “We see plenty of suits in here, Kenny, but the suits almost always come off.” Her brow furrowed and her slanted Asian eyes narrowed even further as she asked, “How’d you find out about this? And why would these people confide in you? Are you a cop?”
    Sam could see Giselle was about to panic and answered quickly, “I used to be. Now, I’m just a starving Private Investigator, and I helped this couple get a couple of rare antique rifles for their collection about a year ago. They never did pay me what we had agreed on as a finder’s fee, so I have a bit of an axe to grind with them. Besides, it’s all insured. They’ll make more money off this deal than we will.
    Giselle’s glassy eyes peered into Sam’s, like a poker player trying to figure out if the other player is bluffing, or not. She shook her head and got up. Sam watched, showing no emotion as she put her bra and negligee back on. He wondered if she would call the bouncer that places like this always had. Sure enough, she opened the door and shouted down the hall, “Rahim, come here! We got a problem!”
    Sam stood up now, waiving his arms and pleading, “C’mon Giselle, I told you I was a P.I. and I’ve got my business card right here for you.”
    He reached into his jacket’s breast pocket to get it, causing Giselle to duck and scream, “Gun! He’s got a gun!”
    “I ain’t got no fuckin’ gun, Giselle,” Sam shouted, as he heard heavy footsteps coming up the hall. “I was just reachin’ for my God damned business card. Look!” He held the card out for her to see, but her thin frame quickly turned and disappeared through the door only to be replaced a split second later by Rahim, the 340 pound, six-foot-seven bouncer. The former All Southwest Conference offensive lineman for the University of Houston football squad stood in the doorway, red faced, panting, and ready for action.
    Sam put his hands up as Benny looked him over and said, “I ain’t got no gun, Rahim, and I never touched Giselle. We were talkin’ business, and she got to thinkin’ I was a cop, which I’m not, and she panicked. That’s when she called for you. That’s all that’s happenin’ here, man. Nobody’s in any danger and nobody needs to get hurt, that’s for sure. Especially not me!”
    “I’m not here for talk, mister!” Rahim replied. “When the girls call me, I’m supposed to throw the customer out. There ain’t no room for discussion.”
    “Well,” Sam asked, “How about if I just leave on my own, and save you the trouble of escorting me to my car?”
    With his hands on his hips, Rahim shook his big, bald, head, looking like a mean, nasty version of the old Mr. Clean floor wax giant, come to life, golden earring and all. He grunted, “Uh-uh. That’s not an option,” and stepped forward into the room, his huge frame barely squeezing through the door, muscles bulging under the black T-shirt with the black light green, Jade Pillow logo.
    Sam waited for Rahim to try to grab him by his jacket and jerked away at the last minute, delivering a spinning kick to chest of his assailant. The force of the surprise move knocked Rahim back against the glass table where the CD player sat. The table shattered as Rahim collapsed onto it, sending glittering shards of glass flying in all directions and catapulting the CD player end over end across the thickly carpeted floor.
    Sam burst through the door, not knowing whether to go back toward the front of the business, or down the hall in the opposite direction, towards a door, above which, was a red exit sign and probably led straight out to the parking lot in back of the building. He chose to head towards the front lobby, figuring quickly that the back door would be locked, in case any customer decided to leave before settling his debt.
    Behind him he heard Rahim roaring as he extricated himself from the frame of the ruined glass table. “You son of a bitch, you’re gonna regret that!” Having no intention of hanging around long enough for that to happen, Sam yanked the lobby door open and ran past two startled patrons in the process of revving up their libidos, while waiting for their appointments, by browsing through a stack of pornographic magazines lying on the large coffee table in the middle of the room. Oddly, Sam thought, as he sprinted past the surprised men, the scene resembled what you would expect to find in the waiting room of any respectable hair salon.
    Once outside, running for Methuselah, Sam began to think everything was going to be all right until he rounded the back corner of the building, and saw Rahim in the dim light, standing there, waiting for him. “He must have gone out the back door,” Sam thought, as he slowed down and readied himself for the unavoidable confrontation. “Listen Rahim,” he said, breathing heavily, “I never would have kicked you if you had just let me leave like I asked!”
    Rahim held his right arm up, revealing a gash from which blood oozed. “I would’a gone easy on you,” he said, “if you hadn’t resisted. It would’a been mostly all show, just to impress the girls, to make ‘em think I was protecting them. But now,” he said, raising a fist and shaking it, “I gotta fuck you up, cowboy!”
    Sam backed up against the gray, concrete, wall, and waited for Rahim to come at him.He didn’t have to wait long. It was like watching an 18-wheeler coming into your lane. You knew if it hit you, you were history. Moving with speed that belied his size, Rahim lowered his head and charged. Remembering his football days, he stayed low and focused on the belt buckle of the man in front of him. Maybe it was because he was enraged and embarrassed by Sam giving him the slip so easily, but he ran far too fast to adjust for Sam’s last second side step, and slammed into the wall with a terrible thud before collapsing in a heap, onto the pavement.
    Sam reached down and rolled the unconscious bouncer over on his back to be sure he was still breathing. He was, but he had a hell of a knot rising at the top of his forehead. Sam pulled his cell phone out, and dialed 9-1-1 to ask for an ambulance. After all, Rahim was just following orders, which Sam could appreciate. The big guy probably hadn’t been hired solely on the strength of a surprisingly high score on the company’s new hire I.Q. test. Realizing that Rahim might be just one of several bouncers on duty Sam looked down one last time, said, “Sorry ‘bout the headache you’re gonna have, amigo,” and jumped into Methuselah. He wasted no time peeling out of the parking lot and becoming a speck in the endless stream leaving Houston on U.S. 59. As he drove he reflected on what he had learned and began to piece together what he felt had happened to Jim.
    Paul and Giselle were obviously robbing people based on information Paul got from prospects on the phone. Somehow Jim had either figured it out, or was going to fire Paul for some other valid reason, and Paul had done the only thing he could think of to save his job. He had murdered the man who threatened to fire him. Paul couldn’t allow his gold mine to be taken away. One of America’s favorite annoyances, Telemarketing, had become a convenient front for Paul and his wife, who were really involved in far more treacherous businesses which could be labeled as Teleburglary and Telemurdering. Oh, he could go to work for another alarm company, but he probably would never get medical benefits again and would never again be hired as a full-time employee. Hell, even the most heinous villains wanted benefits, and Sam had seen plenty of situations during his years in homicide where men had been killed over far less important things.
    Beginning to unwind, slowly, Sam popped a Delbert McClinton CD into Methuselah’s dash. With the help of some bona fide Texas roadhouse blues, gradually, the intensity on his face began to soften, as the traffic crept along at a pace Sam often referred to as, “Slower than a crippled turtle.” These days if you were on the Southwest freeway, also known as U.S. 59, the old adage of going nowhere fast had become impossible. Yep, even if you were going nowhere, it would take you a good long while to get there.

ID: 1481363   (Rated: GC) Telemurdering: Chapter 13 - 14  Fighting back by George R. Lasher

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