CHAPTER ELEVEN

                                     Jackie Weldon

9:55 a.m.

In the blackness, Reggie heard music.

A vicious headache escaped, throb by throb, through his eyes. Pain crowded his face, especially his nose. His muscles hurt. He discovered his groin was particularly tender when he moved his legs together.

In the next room Billy Joel continued to sing:

Your sister's out, she's on a date;
You just sit home and masturbate....

The thought of yanking his pud raised a lump of nausea in his throat. When he gasped, he sniffed. Blankets, curtains, starched sheets. Downey fresh. He was in bed. Again, he tried to open his eyes. They hurt. The lids quivered as he tore the lashes apart.

He laid on a double bed under sheets, in a darkened room, a sliver of morning slipping by the side of the window shade.

His body felt lifeless. An ache, like a defeat, came over him as his eyes became used to the light in the bedroom. He rolled slowly to his side. The clock on the night stand glowed in the dark. It was almost ten in the morning.

The raunchy organ music and Billy Joel's nasally assurance that Captain Jack will get you high tonight faded.

In the next room, a voice–a man's voice. "Enough of that." It was the man on the intercom, the wimp on the phone last night. He heard the spring-loaded sound of a tape ejection.

Reggie elevated his body slightly, pushed himself from the soft puffy pillow with his elbow. A woozy feeling swarmed his head. He toppled forward, fell from the bed and thudded hard on the rug. His stomach churned. He retched.

"What was that?" the man said from the next room.

"He's awake." Lucilva's voice. Footsteps. The door opened. Bright light flooded over Reggie as he lay on the floor.

"Mr. Thomas," she said too formally, reaching down to help him, "are you all right?"

He shrugged her hand away.

"I'm just trying to–Jesus, what's that smell?"

She found the amoeba-shaped pool of vomit at her feet. She picked up the phone beside the bed and pushed the intercom button.

Reggie reached for the bedpost, hoisted himself to his feet and sat on the end of the bed.

"Amalia," Lucilva said into the phone, "bring some water and towels to Mr. Thomas's room, please." She hung up.

Reggie asked: "What happened?"

"You tell me."

"Last night, I mean."

"Well." She sighed. "My crazy brother beat the daylights out of you."

"Terrific. And I missed it?"

"I'm very sorry."

"Not more than me. Is he still around?"

"No."

"Where's Jackie?"

"Asleep. Next room. I just checked on her."

"Yeah? And what about medical attention? Or is that too much to ask or doesn't it matter that your brother raped her."

Incredulously, she replied: "Josh? She said she heard something outside the motorhome and got scared and ran out naked and fell. Who said he raped her?" She raised the shade to half-mast. Sunlight formed a parallelogram on the bed. Reggie squinted.

"Jackie said." Slowly, he rose from the bed. Keeping his legs apart, he walked bowlegged to the door. The Salvadoran maid Amalia arrived with a plastic pail of hot water and some towels. Reggie squeezed by her.

"And spray the room with something," Lucilva ordered, following Reggie into the hallway.

"Which room?"

"First door on the right."

Reggie opened the door a crack, peered inside the darkened room. In the dim light, under a mountain of silk sheets, blankets and a thick patchwork comforter, her head enfolded deep in pillows, Jackie lay sleeping. He stepped in the room, closed the door on Lucilva. He didn't want her in there. Reggie turned on the lamp on the table under the window. In sleep, she looked even younger than seventeen. Her short brown hair was matted around a face so void of expression she looked dead. She appeared child-like in the big four-poster bed.

Little girl, he thought, kneeling beside the bed. He touched her shoulder, stroked it gently. You gotta go home. I shouldn't have brought you here. His hand drifted to her neck. Then his fingers followed the line of her jaw to her hair. He softly stroked her head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Abruptly, her eyes opened, fluttered, and then recognition came to her face. Her eyes darted around the room. "Is he still here?"

"No, he's gone. Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?"

"My arm. He kinda twisted it. And my ribs hurt a little."

"You need to see a doctor?"

"I don't think so. How're you?"

She's trying to keep me out of it.

"Pretty beat up, to be honest. What happened?"

"He knocked you out with a piece of pipe and then he just kept kicking you and kicking you. I tried to stop him, but he pushed me away. He was too big. I ran in the house and got Lucilva. She stopped him. He would've killed you."

"We oughta have the son-of-a-bitch arrested," Reggie suggested.

She licked her lips and sighed, searching the room for some illusive thought. Finally, the corner of her mouth twitched into a painful grin.

"I need a hit."

They watched each other's eyes. There was a tap at the door.

"Get dressed," he said. "We'll go see that detective."

Jackie shook her head. "I don't think that's a good idea. It could ruin everything."

"Everything's already ruined, Jackie. You can't let him get away with it." Another tap at the door. "Wait a minute, please."

"What about your business?"

"Screw 'em."

"I don't want to go through anything. You know? He might do something to me if I go to the police. And everything you've planned–I just want to forget about it. I just want a hit, okay? Please. One more and I swear I'll never slam again."

"You said you wanted to go home last night."

A trace of exasperation seeped through her voice as she said:

"Lucilva fixed you up and we got you to bed last night. While she was in your room, I called Teddi–"

"Who?"

"My mother. She's...she's picking me up at the bus station in L. A. I take a shuttle from here to Barstow, then to L.A."

"You're not taking any bus. I'll drive–"

"No. I'm taking the bus. You finish what you have to. When you're done, we can pick up where we...I guess where we never began."

"Get off the crank," Reggie said, touching her cheek with the palm of his hand. "I'll take care of Josh."

Her eyes averted his. "Don't. Let it go."

"I won't let it go."

She took a deep breath, lolled her head back against the headboard. "I need a hit–bad." She bit her lower lip.

There was another tap at the door. Reggie unlocked and opened it. A dandy-looking fellow stood there. He was in his mid-forties, with dark graying hair and a trimmed salt and pepper beard. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, and yellow suspenders held up a pair of beige trousers with creases sharp enough for shaving. Lucilva stood behind him, a sour expression of exclusion on her face.

"How do you do, Mr. Thomas?" the man said. He looked at Jackie. She looked away, pulling the sheets around her. The man turned back to Reggie. "Heard you had a little go-'round with Lucy's little brother." The statement was probably meant as introduction, but it was terribly awkward.

"This is my friend, John Quinn," Lucilva said.

Reggie nodded to him. "Could I speak to you?" he said. He took Lucilva’s arm and led her down the hall. He stopped halfway, walked back to Jackie's room and peeked in. Quinn had approached the bed. He turned to Reggie, then stepped away from the bed.

"Get dressed," Reggie said. "We're going."

She glanced at this stranger in her room. "I want to say goodbye to Ivan," she said.

Reggie nodded. Staring into Quinn's face, he closed the door and rejoined Lucilva.

"Pleasure meeting you," Quinn called after them. Reggie heard the rough edge of sarcasm in his voice but ignored it.

He took Lucilva outside to a bronze statue of a desert pioneer perched on the lawn. He stopped and turned on her. "I want to know where Josh is, I want to know how that faggot fits in, and I want to know when we're getting started on the burn."

Lucilva folded her arms across her red cotton blouse, lifting her bust in the process. "Josh is gone. To get the chemicals. That man is not a faggot, he's an actor. He doesn't fit in with the deal. He's on the city council. I'm trying to...work out some things with the city and he's someone with receptive ears. By tonight Josh'll have the chemicals and your little buddy'll be out of jail and you can get set up at the hangar–"

"Only if the fat troll stays away," Reggie interjected acidly.

"Well...I don't think so. It's his hangar. Only safe place. There's nothing for fifteen miles in any direction. We fly the product out of there to a pig farm east of Baker, and–"

"Fly? In that contraption in the hangar?"

"It's an ultra-light."

"Who does the flying?"

"That doesn't concern you. You make it. That's all."

"And what do you do?"

"I decide whether you're going to make it."

Reggie found the sun nearly at its zenith. He shaded his face with his hand to look around the huge putting green yard, cluttered with several split-wood tables, chairs made of thin, twisted willow branches. A perfect day for...something. He began wondering: When did I forget how to enjoy the simple things in life? Simple fun. Making movies was simple fun.

"You're fading out again," Lucilva said. "Can't you stop that?"

"I'm thinking."

"Then don't think."

"What're you going to do about Josh?"

"About what?"

"Jackie. The rape."

"Mr. Thomas–"

"Jackie has no reason to lie about it. I saw him."

"Rape her?"

"No. He was coming down from the motorhome."

"He said he just got there and heard somebody scream, went to investigate and got stuck in the mud."

"And Jackie made it all up?"

"My brother–my half brother–is a violent man. You're witness to that fact. But I know my brother, and he doesn't have it in him to rape a teenager."

"No question, he raped her. And he's going to pay for it. Somehow. Maybe not now. When the job's done. Someday."

"Do what you have to do."

John Quinn stepped out into the sunshine and donned a pale yellow Panama hat. He threw Lucilva a kiss. She waved back. He left in a mud-splattered, black MG convertible, an American flag fluttering from the aerial.

Lucilva stared down into the valley. "Caught Jackie snooping around my house last night. I want her gone."

"It’s already been decided," Reggie assured her.

"When?"

"Today."

"Excellent."

* * *

Outside the two temporary courtroom trailers, Reggie avoided Officer Tooley who stood near the farthest trailer marked Department B by standing under a shady tree. His brow dripped perspiration. It was hot. He wished for the rain again.

After paying his fine, I. Q. emerged from Department B. He stood at the top of the ramp, using his hand as a visor and finally settled on the shady spot.

"Hey, Reg! Boy'm I glad to be out here! What happened to you?" He reached for the lump on Reggie's face, a lump that had become more painful the larger it got.

Reggie grunted, blocked his hand away and said, "Let's go."

I. Q. followed him. "How'd you manage to get to the baggy?"

"Shut up, I didn't," Reggie whispered back.

"It was over an ounce–somebody did."

"Does it matter?"

"Hell, I just asked. You don't have to bite my head off." They walked down the hill a hundred paces and I. Q. asked, "Deal still on?"

"Yes. The deal's on."

"Everything's cool?"

"Yes."

"How's everything cool?"

Reggie stopped and turned on him. "You already screwed things up letting the cops in the motorhome. As a favor, I'm not telling you anything more than you have to know. The less you know the better."

I. Q. hung his head. Reggie walked the rest of the way down the hill, crossed First Street, taking Hill Avenue one block. They crossed Second Street to the motorhome, parked under a tree across the street from the Paley Park and Museum in front of Odds and Ends Antique Shop. I. Q. hadn't said a word the whole way and wouldn't look at him once they got in the motorhome.

"I'm sorry," Reggie apologized. "I got the shit beat out of me. I'm not in a good mood, all right? Bear with me."

"You won't even let me give a shit about you."

"I'm sorry. Be my guest. Give a shit all you want. Right now, though, we have to meet Jackie."

"Where is she?"

"Buying a bus ticket."

I. Q.'s face turned stony. Then anxious nervousness took over his voice. "Where is she going? What's going on?"

A twinge of emptiness settled in Reggie's stomach. "Jackie's going home."

                                            PART TWO
                                  Friday, August 22, 1987

                                        CHAPTER TEN

                                      Dutch Youngblood

9:15 a.m.

Wearing black-rimmed dark glasses, Robby Catlin leaned against the wall by Joe's office with one leg over the other and his arms crossed over his chest. Joe got out his keys, biting his lip to keep from grinning.

"Take off the glasses." He unlocked the door.

"Down in the lobby? Says you open at nine," Robby said. He uncrossed his limbs and tucked his fingers in his blue jeans pockets, letting his thumbs hang out. "You're fifteen minutes late."

"You're three years early. What're you doing here?"

"Coming to work."

"No, you're not." Joe entered his reception area; Robby trailed behind him. Joe placed his hand gently on Robby's chest and held him back. "Your mother would kill me–slowly." He closed the door.

"Mr. Cox," he said through the door. "Let me work on her, I'm good at it, she'll change her mind, I know her, I can do it. Give me until Monday."

Joe switched on the lights and sniffed deeply, enjoying that aroma of responsibility that lingered in empty offices.

Robby called out, "What do you say, Mr. Cox?"

"Goodbye."

"Mr. Cox, give me a chance to change her mind–I can do it!" The door cracked open and Robby peeked in. "Please."

Joe pushed his head out. "Goodbye, Robby." And closed it again.

"Please, Mr. Cox–"

"Goodbye!"

A few moments later, mumbling complaints under his breath, Robby left. In half a minute the phone on the reception desk rang. Joe answered it.

"Mr. Cox. Please." He was calling from the downstairs lobby.

"No. Your mother forbids it, my partner thinks its irresponsible...and besides, I don't know nuthin' 'bout birthin' no babies."

"What's that supposed to mean? I'm a good worker. I learn fast. I need this job."

Joe had a thought. "Hey, check around the building. Maybe someone else has an opening for a kid, something better suited to a fifteen-year-old." Robby sighed. "It's just not going to happen right now. When you're eighteen, call me." Joe hung up.

There was a moment long enough for Joe to gather his thoughts and the phone rang again. He answered it, "Robby, I said no!"

"Is this Joe?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, Mrs. Weldon. I expected someone else. Good morning. How are you?"

"Joe, I'm doing great! You won't believe this! Jackie called me last night and she's coming home!"

...coming home, coming home, coming home, home, home....

"Well...that's"–he should be happy for her–"I'm happy for you," he managed to say. "When is she coming home?"

"Tonight. I pick her up at the downtown Greyhound station. Supposed to call me today for the time. I'm beside myself, I'm so happy. It's her eighteenth birthday next Friday. I thought I'd miss it."

"Did she say where she was?"

"She didn't say and I didn't ask. Maybe I should have, but...she sounds fine and she wants to come home–that's all that matters."

"I think I know where she is."

Teddi's breathing stopped briefly. "I don't know if I want to know."

"Paley, California–I think. She's with two characters named Reggie Thomas and Ivan Sonneborn. Coincidently, we all have a mutual acquaintance and he's a friend of the mayor's."

Weldon's voice softened when she said, "You've done a great job, Joe. I mean that. And if anything goes wrong...you'll be the man I call."

"Thanks." Something twisted in Joe's stomach. "I'll get your...your refund"–he gagged on the word–"in the mail today."

"I'd prefer that you hold on to it until Jackie's back. Once Jackie's home and back in school and everything's normal, I'll be okay, but if anything goes wrong–"

"She'll be okay," Joe assured her.

"Yeah, you're right. She's a good kid. I have to get her away from the losers she's with. There's a boy–a nice boy, from a good family–who's called here a few times. Jayne talked to him yesterday. He seemed very upset that she was gone." She put her hand over the mouthpiece, it sounded like, and then she said, "Joe? Jayne wants me to tell you, 'Daisy says hi.'" Jayne, in the background, giggled. He pictured the teenager with her hands in her back pockets, her hip cocked to one side, and a teasing smirk on her face. And a rattlesnake in her pocket.

"Thanks, Joe. I'll let you know when she's home."

They hung up.

The front door opened. Leah didn't smile. She was still ticked off about yesterday. Her black pants, cream-colored blouse and red and cream scarf tied around her neck made Joe think she was headed to the mall.

"What?" Leah said, as if things were already bad. Her purse slid down her arm and onto the green and beige plaid couch in the waiting area. "Somebody die? What?"

Joe put on a smile; a little tight, but it would do. "Good news."

"I could use some. Freezer at the North Hollywood shop pooped out last night and I lost 33 gallons of product. And as if that isn't enough, my Sherman Oaks shop got broken into." A pasted smile followed. Smoothly, she said, "They didn't get anything either."

"Jackie Weldon called her mother. She's coming home."

Disappointment crumpled the smooth skin around her eyes. "We have to give her money back." She glanced at her watch. "Nine-thirty in the morning. Already, this." Her face displayed a disturbing thought. Her voice jumped an octave. "I got stuck in a bathroom window for nothing! I could have been hurt! The cops could have rolled by and I'd be in jail."

"I got you out of the window."

"This time. But don't ask me to break the law again, mister, because I knew it was wrong when I did it, and I didn't like the way it felt when it was over."

"Okay," Joe said. He went to his office, took a stack of files from the edge of his desk and returned to the reception area. "Here. Prep these."

"What are they?"

"Our caseload. Six cases." She perked up. Her eyes lit up with interest. She shuffled through them, flipping pages to see what they were about.

"I get to work them?"

"You get to prep them. Order DMV, public filings, check Secretary of State for corporate status, check Voter's Registration, order a credit report–"

"Wait, wait...what're you talking about?"

"You're going to learn how to do the in-house stuff."

"And then what?"

"And then I'll take a look and finish them up."

"Why can't I finish them up?"

"Because you don't know what the hell you're doing yet."

"When you finish them up, you'll show me what you're doing, right?"

"Soon enough."

She slapped the files on his desk. "Give me a break, Joe! I see what the hell you're up to! You don't fool me!"

"Then we understand each other."

"Wrong." She folded her arms and sucked air. "Explain it to me." Her sigh reminded Joe of his mother, the way she demonstrated authority.

"When I think you know how to prep a case, I'll show how to do the rest of the investigation."

"You mean the field."

"Right. First you crawl, then you walk."

"Wrong. I never crawl." She turned to leave, then stopped. "Staring at microfiche viewers and computer monitors, thumbing through cross-directories–or whatever you call them– and making a bunch of phone calls isn't my idea of detective work."

"There's the rub," Joe quipped. "Detective work, Leah, wasn't your idea. And when I took you into the field, you didn't like it."

She stepped up to him, stood right under his nose and said: "The field? You call crawling through a bathroom window–for nothing–working the field? Give me a break. You don't like me. I don't know why you don't like me, but you don't. Maybe you feel threatened by a woman in business, maybe you hate frozen yogurt, maybe I'm a necessary evil."

She was right on all three accounts. Joe's resolve to play dumb dissolved under her plain truth.

"What exactly don't you like? You got two locates there–those are fun–"

"If I get to go out and look for people, sure, but you're saying I have to find them from the office?"

"Most of the time that's how it's done. More profit that way, too. Running around L. A. tracking somebody down isn't efficient. We go into the field when we have to. That's why we use cross-directories. Gag a neighbor."

"Gag? You mean like choke them?" she said incredulously.

"A gag is when you use a pretext–pretend to be someone you know they’ll talk to.  They'll tell you practically anything you want to know. You just have to know who to be when you call. It's a blast."

"Gag a neighbor. Lie, you mean. Lie to some poor old lady who happens to live next door to somebody we want to find. Doesn't sound like fun to me. Sounds sick."

"This business isn't for you then. That's what we do."

"Why can't I go out and talk to her in person, eye to eye? You did it on this Weldon case. I read the report you put in the file. You went to I.Q.'s house, you talked to the guy downstairs, you went to the RV place, you talked to the lady there–"

"This was a situation where I had to go out to make contact. I still had to use a gag at both places. You aren't ready for that."

"You were just showing off for the kid."

"Now give me a break. We may be partners. But I'm in charge. Period. You'll do as I say. Prep the files."

Leah looked at the stack of files. She picked them up, went to her little office off the reception area and closed the door.

"Thank you," Joe said.

The Weldon file, with its orange label, indicating that it was a locate, rested in his IN tray like a lonely cadaver–flat, lifeless. He shoved it into the file cabinet behind his desk. The drawer was labeled: CLOSED.

Joe called Sad Café. Dutch's secretary said he was home working on his room addition. Joe called the house.

"Hey, guy, how's it going?" Dutch said, in his usual excited manner. "Caught me in the middle of a bench press."

"Keep it up and you'll look like that Schwartzenegger guy."

"I was in great shape when I worked construction. Went to flab during the Steiger years. Gotta keep in shape for the babes."

"So what's up? You called Tuesday."

"Opening night, guy. Tonight. Got two tickets for you."

"Sure. Last play you put on was great."

"Bring your new partner," he snickered.

"Cut it out."

"Let her defrost first."

"Okay, okay."

"How's business?"

"It's coming. Got a nice runaway case in yesterday, but the kid called and she's coming home."

"How many times that happen at Steigers? Huh? Never fails."

"Remember that child custody case you and I worked in Paley?" Dutch didn't answer. "About four years ago."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah."

"Went yesterday to Otto's office–"

"How is the piece of shit?"

"–and he knows the creep this kid ran off with."

"Wow. Karma in the air."

"He didn't like it, but I twisted his arm into telling me they went to Paley."

There was a moment of silence, then, "What're they doing there?"

"Who knows. Didn't you make a friend in town while we were there?"

"Yeah. John." Another moment of silence.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Did you keep in contact with him?"

"Yeah."

That Dutch wasn’t offering information meant only one thing to Joe: he’s trying to figure out what I know, what I’m after. He thinks I’m fishing for information. So Joe threw out a lure and said: "You don’t know what I know, so you might as well tell me."

"Oh, you thought I was trying to– No, man, I’m just distracted here. It’s no big deal. John and I got a little joint venture going."

That surprised Joe. Dutch had never mentioned it.

"When did this happen?" Joe asked, trying not to give away that he didn’t know about it.

"Plans started a year ago. Got started in June."

"Where you getting all this dough?"

"Here and there."

He was being his evasive self. Joe didn't push it, because he didn't really care.

"So what's the venture?"

"Another theater."

"Here?"

"No. In Paley. We're getting ready to open. Fact, I just came from there."

"Well, if the girl doesn't come home like she says, maybe you'd like to join me in Paley."

"Hey, guy, I'd love to, but the play's all weekend–two shows on Sunday. Thanks for the offer." He hesitated again. "But, hey, what about lunch today?"

Dutch had never asked to have lunch in all the years they'd known each other. Why now? "Sure."

"Say, two. At the theater."

"What's the occasion?"

"Does there have to be an occasion for me to have lunch with an old buddy?"

"No."

"Okay, then. See you at two."

"See you."

The clock on the wall read 9:55. What now? Leah was prepping all six of their files. Did he sit here and wait for the phone to ring? Hell, no. If any calls came in, Leah could flash them to the car phone. He had to get business. Drop in on a few attorneys around the Valley, leave a few Fee Schedules.

He peeked into Leah's office. "I'm going to change and see some prospective clients. I'll be back around one." She sneered. At the elevator, the doors opened. Robby stood inside. He saluted. Beside him was a mop in an industrial-size mop bucket with attached wringer. He cocked his head at the mop handle he held.

"Thanks for the advice. Mr. Kanawyer gave me a job for after school. We'll be seeing a lot of each other."

It had taken this kid only thirty minutes to get a job. His mother knew Kanawyer, but Joe suspected it had nothing to do with it. Kanawyer was a push-over anyway. He'd be putty in this kid's hands.

Holding the mop handle, Robby pushed the bucket out the door on its wheels and headed down the seventh floor hall. Hanging from his belt was a clip of keys. Over his shoulder, he called back:

"If you need anything–something cleaned, something mopped, something fixed, surveillance–stuff like that–call the maintenance number." He winked.

Joe held the elevator doors open to say: "Lo siento, muchacho, pero no hablo Ingles!"

"That's okay, Mr. Cox! I speak Spanish! Hasta la vista!"

                            Reveal
                                       by Dan McGinley                         

        Part Two

Sam drove his Corvette to the bar entrance after dinner and met Ryan.  They hit some stop-and-go tourist traffic on Route 1 but made good time further north, in Massachusetts, Sam playing French love songs on his stereo until Boston, when he suddenly reached over and turned the music off.

Ryan listened to the performance exhaust system and then Sam’s soft voice, speaking slowly just over a muffled rumble.

“There’s an old man you’re going to see tonight at the restaurant, who runs many things in Chinatown right now.”

Ryan nodded, watching the road as Sam considered the brevity of his next words.

“I have a son who came over when I brought my family, running from the Khmer Rouge.  Do you know about that history?”

Ryan looked out at the dark landscape. “My father died over there.  That’s the only history I know about Vietnam.”

Sam watched him for a few seconds and said, “I’m sorry.”

Ryan shrugged.

“My son had a daughter in Cambodia,” Sam said.  “He tried to keep it a secret.”

Ryan turned and looked at him.

“My son brought her over for a very high price, and now she works it off in a sweat shop.”

Ryan was still looking at him. “Where’s her mother?”

“She didn’t make it out.”

“I’m sorry.”

Now Sam shrugged. “The thing is . . . my granddaughter is a slave.  She’ll never work it off.”

Ryan turned and listened to the growling exhaust.  One night at the bar he had to take down a football player from the university, and when a teammate tried to hit Ryan from behind with a beer bottle, Sam did some martial arts magic and dropped the attacker, saving Ryan from serious damage.

Now Sam is often in the shadows on a busy night, watching out for his friend.  Ryan joins him on a day dragger out of Point Judith once in a while, hauling fish.

“How much money do they owe?” Ryan asked.

“Eighty-thousand.”

Sam looked at Ryan, who only nodded. “Who does she owe?”

“The old man you will meet tonight.”

Ryan nodded again.

“I’m going to make a payment,” Sam said. “Only ten, but it gets her closer to freedom.”   

Ryan looked at his friend. “Where is your granddaughter now?”

“New York, living with seven others in a small apartment.”

“And her father.”

“Working for the old man.”

Ryan watched him closely. “I’m not liking the old man.”

Sam shrugged. “He makes money with people . . . that’s what he does.”

Ryan continued watching him. “I used to make money with people, too.”

Sam met his eyes as Ryan asked, ”What can I do for you tonight?”

“Just be there, Ryan.  He likes to play power games, but you may even things up a bit.”

Ryan said nothing, just nodding again as they came off the highway and drove through Boston’s Chinatown to park in front of a large pagoda restaurant, after a man moved some orange cones. 

They walked quickly past a waiting line and upstairs to a massive round table set in one corner occupied by several men from Cambodia and South Vietnam.  There were several plates of food on the table, with two empty seats waiting. 

Sam introduced Ryan and told him not to worry about remembering names.  He ordered beers and explained how the food was for everyone, and if Ryan wanted anything special they would order for him.

Ryan said a Scorpion Bowl would taste good, and in less than a minute he was sipping the potent drink as others laughed and nodded.

He had the entire bowl to himself as the men began conversing in Vietnamese, Ryan sipping frequently and picking at chicken fingers with pork-fried rice.

The old man sat with his back to the corner as the others conversed.  Every so often someone would come and talk to him for a minute and leave.  Sometimes they passed things between them, but transactions were always blocked by the table cloth.

Ryan recalled that when they first arrived, Sam had passed the old man an envelope, which would be the payment toward his enslaved granddaughter.

The old man said something to Sam, who turned to Ryan and asked if he enjoyed the food.

Ryan just nodded and Sam said something back to the old man, who stared at Ryan and nodded.

“These people are all businessmen here in Boston,” Sam explained.  “We’re doing a little business, and then we’ll go over to watch the Kung Fu.”

Ryan nodded and wiped his mouth with a napkin, as someone spoke to Sam.

“Do you like gambling?” Sam asked, and Ryan shrugged.

Sam turned and repeated the shrug, which caused some laughter and talk, while three people visited to exchange something under the table.

Ryan sipped the Scorpion Bowl and felt more relaxed as the potent drink settled in.  The red table cloth reminded Ryan of his wife, who had a dress with the same flower pattern and matching high heels.

Where was she now?

He had to think for a minute and finally remembered Los Angeles, where her father had a huge mansion. 

She came home one night when he had been drinking, and there were two women in the bed, so she walked out and flew back home.

She was half Mexican, and he thought of her shining black eyes and beautiful skin, trying to remember what the other half was, and thinking maybe Scottish.

“Scottish!” he blurted, and the entire table became silent as Sam turned to his friend.

There was a man doing business across the table and he froze as Ryan looked around in startled confusion to remember where he was.

“Ryan?”

Ryan turned to Sam and shrugged.

“Ryan . . . are you alright?”

“Yes,” Ryan said.  “She was half Scottish.”

Sam nodded slowly, watching his friend with deep concern.  “It’s okay.”

“She was half Mexican and half Scottish.”

Sam studied his face closely, like a cut man.  “Who was she?”

Ryan nodded.  “It’s okay.  She’s gone now.”

“So you’re okay?”

Ryan tilted his head to the straw and inhaled from the Scorpion Bowl. 

“Better,” he mumbled, and the men all laughed and nodded, ready for a very entertaining night.

“Couple minutes,” Sam said.  “We’ll go down to Kneeland Street.”

                                        * * *
The Kung Fu Academy was like a gymnasium with padded mats covering a polished wooden floor.  Ryan sat on extended bleachers with the others and watched two men in blindfolds circling each other in a relaxed, bent-knee stance, while another man acting as referee watched from the side.

Sam explained how this would demonstrate fighting in total darkness, and Ryan watched closely as the two men maneuvered and prodded with hands and feet, one suddenly spinning to kick, while the other sensed his movement and retreated with a defensive block in place.

One of Sam’s companions said something, and Sam turned to Ryan.

“Phien just asked how you would do against any of these fighters.”

Ryan looked around Sam to the other man, who met his stare.

“No blindfold,” Sam added.

“I would kill any one of them in seconds,” Ryan said.

Sam studied Ryan closely, wondering if the Scorpion Bowl had something to do with this answer.

“Are you serious?” Sam asked.

Ryan gave a little nod and his eyes darkened, looking at the man named Phien.

Phien straightened up like a cobra, his eyebrows showing surprise. “You want to demonstrate?” he asked in perfect English.

Ryan gave another little nod, watching the wheels go into motion as Sam found his eyes again, saying, “No, Ryan.  You shouldn’t be doing this right now.”

Phien started speaking rapidly to the old man as faces turned to look at this bold American.

“It’s a good time to tell me your thoughts,” Sam said.  “Before I lose control of this situation.”

Ryan held his eyes and did not waver. “He asked my opinion, and now they want to see the truth.”

“The truth.”

One of the men started making their way down to where fighters sat, waiting their turns.

“What is the truth, Ryan?”

Ryan stood slowly and stretched, then dipped his head from one shoulder to the other in an old reflexive move to loosen neck muscles.

Why was he here?

To save the princess, who flew to him this morning and asked for help.

Now he was challenged by her captors, so there was only one path to take and get her back.  There could be no hesitation or sign of weakness.

“Ryan,” Sam repeated, standing.  “What is the truth, Ryan?”

Ryan stopped loosening up and stared down to where a tall Chinese fighter was looking up now, finding the American, and talking rapidly to the man who had just descended. “Time will reveal the truth,” he said.  “Remember?”

Sam watched him closely and turned to the man down below, who pointed at Ryan with one finger, and the Chinese fighter with another.

“Seconds,” Sam said.  “You can kill him in seconds.”

Ryan descended the bleachers, Sam watching money trade hands all around him, like small green fish revealing themselves in a tumultuous ocean.

Out on the mats, both blind-folded combatants were locked together in a tangle of limbs before one of them tapped out in submission, and the referee blew a whistle to signal the end.

He moved the men out and came over to Ryan and the Chinese fighter, introducing them as Sam swore quietly in Cambodian and reluctantly stood to follow his friend down, down, down.

“Your shoes,” the referee said to Ryan, pointing.  “Take off your shoes.”

“I’m not using my feet.”

The referee looked at the Chinese fighter, who stared at Ryan like he was crazy.

“To protect the mats,” the referee said, turning back.  “And you can move better on the mats.”

“I only have one move.”

The referee looked up to the old man and shouted something in Cantonese.

The old man shrugged as money traded hands, and excited voices sounded like a flock of birds.

“Hey,” Ryan said. “Any other rules you want to tell me about?”

The referee stared at him. “Keep your shoes, and no biting.”

Ryan showed nothing.  The referee had both fighters face each other approximately six feet apart, stepped back, and placed the whistle in his mouth.

The Chinese man crouched and took a fighting stance as Ryan stood almost erect with his right side leading, hands loose and moving slightly at his sides.

When the whistle blew, his opponent crouched and bobbed a little as Ryan’s right hand disappeared under his loose cotton camp shirt and reappeared to aim a large .45 automatic.

The room became deathly quiet, and the click of a hammer being thumbed back carried far.

Sam turned to look up at the old man, who was frozen like the others, not quite believing his eyes.

Sam walked out to Ryan very slowly, like a tourist in a wax museum where none of the other human figures moved.

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking from Ryan to the frozen Chinese fighter.

Ryan shrugged. “I can kill him in seconds; yes?”

“Very much.”

“So maybe you should explain my point.”

Sam turned and started speaking Cantonese to the old man as Ryan aimed steadily at the Chinese fighter’s chest.

There were a few moments of silence after Sam finished, followed by shouted orders from the old man.

The Chinese fighter suddenly crouched very low, and Ryan prepared to shoot him until the man tapped-out.

“Good Kung Fu,” he said, and left the mat as Ryan followed, watching green money fish jump again.

He started ascending the bleachers, holstering his gun as the old man watched and waited.

“You understand me?” Ryan asked.

The old man nodded.

“You know my word is good?”

Again, the old man nodded.

Ryan reached around to his back pocket and produced a checkbook, but men to his left and right were holding guns when his hand disappeared.

“You’ll take a check for the full amount of Sam’s granddaughter.”

The old man smiled warmly, handing Ryan a gold pen. “What granddaughter?”

Ryan filled out a check as the old man’s smile remained. “It’s a lot of money.”

Ryan finished, leaving the name line blank. “It depends on who you are.”

He handed over the check and pen.

“Who are you?” the old man asked.

“Sam’s friend.”

The old man stopped smiling and watched Ryan descend polished bleacher steps as Sam joined him, crossing to an exit door and out onto Kneeland Street.

The old man sat in silence watching his door close, and everyone else watched the old man.

                                            * * *

The Corvette rumbled out of Boston and onto 95 South, toward New York.

“What do you think happens when the check bounces?” Sam asked.

Ryan smiled and looked out the window. “It’s good.”

“I don’t know anything about you anymore.”

Ryan watched the dark world outside.

 “You made a lot.”

“I made this payment in one fight.  The Arturo bout was more than seventy thousand.  There were many others.”

“But now you’re above the bar working for very little.”

“I don’t need much, and I don’t want anything.”

“You don’t want anything.”

“There are people who make a lot over many years, and people who make a lot very quickly.  When my account reached a certain number, I was free and happy.  I could do whatever I wanted.  I quit on a head butt, in a brutal sport.  Done with it.”

“Now you will free my granddaughter.”

Ryan turned to the road ahead and nodded. “I made money hurting people; now I give some back to go the other way.  You always mention karma.”

“I will pay you back.”

“I won’t have it.  I think your granddaughter is exactly like the princess, and there was a reason her spirit visited this morning.”

Sam turned to his friend with surprise. “Botum.”

“Yes,” Ryan nodded. “Everything unfolded today in a perfect way.”

They drove in silence toward New York City for several minutes, Sam planning his next words carefully.

“I hear the bar people sometimes.  They think your mind is gone from the punches.”

Ryan nodded. “They’re right.”

“No,” Sam said, shaking his head for emphasis. “I think only when you’re drinking, and the alcohol makes you wonder a bit.”

“They ran some tests, Sam.  There’s shadows on my brain that indicate damage, and sometimes I’m not really here.  It’s early stages, but alcohol is a quick way to show what will happen in a few years, all the time.  Alcohol reveals the condition more than ever.”

“I see.”

“When you just started speaking again, it took me a second to remember who you were.”

Sam was quiet as Ryan nodded, traveling together in the dark to get Sam’s granddaughter.

Ryan watched the dark, trying to remember if his wife had been half Greek or something else, but then he remembered the girl, and that Sam was her father?  No . . . Sam was her grandfather.

His mind was clear for a moment, and he ran with it.

“Your boy,” Ryan said. “What does he do for the old man?”

“He fixes properties that are rented.”

“A carpenter.”

“He’s very good.”

“He has to leave now,” Ryan said.  “This has to be a complete break.”

“Yes.  I think so.”

“Tomorrow he will have his daughter and leave the old man.  I know builders and landlords.  He can work down in South County and live by you.  This is what I want.”

“I know who you are,” Sam said. “I will always know who you are.”

“I revealed.”

“Revealed?”

Ryan turned to his friend. “In early rounds I would fake and draw the opponent out to learn what he has, but never show my best stuff till later, when the trainer would say, ‘Okay, it’s time to reveal.’”

“This is your reveal?” Sam asked.

Ryan didn’t answer, watching the night roar by and thinking of her name again.

Botum.  He was going to free Botum, and everything would be right again.

Was she half Greek or maybe Mexican?

He looked at Sam and knew; she was Cambodian.

THE END

Dan McGinley was first published in 1990 while living above a seaside club called The Bon Vue Inn, where he worked five nights a week punching drunks and cleaning-up the result.  Bored with high society, he started slipping humorous short stories and articles under an office door of the Great Swamp Gazette, a magazine of art and literature at the University of Rhode Island, where he graduated in 1996, after being elected the Gazette’s Managing Editor for four consecutive years and  freelancing for the Providence Sunday Journal, Narragansett Times, and Westerly Sun.  Sabotage Press published two small books in 1992: Buddha at the Track and Trail of the Screaming Blue Fetus.  He also won two Nancy Potter Short Story awards, but since the name “Nancy Potter” draws big blank stares, forget about it.  More recently, his works have won, placed, and shown fourteen times in “America’s Funniest Humor!” contest, at HumorPress.com.  The Dog was at the Keg Again is a collection of HumorPress award pieces, and available at Amazon Kindle right about . . . NOW!  He lives with two Asian wolves and a neurotic Jack Russell in The Quiet Corner of northeastern Connecticut, from where he writes his popular blog at www.danmcginleyhumor.com. 

                                            

                           Reveal
                                    by Dan McGinley

He sat in the small room with another hangover and looked out one of two windows, hearing Narragansett Bay as a backdrop to other thoughts, with early morning surf breaking on rocks just out of sight.

The night went well down in the bars and there was only one small fight he had to contend with, but there were no punches and rugby players hired from the university pushed two drunks out separate doors to maybe settle things elsewhere. 

They pulled in a lot of bucks, so the bar owner set them up after hours, Ryan sitting down quiet as always until booze loosened tongues, Smitty wanting to know more about the D’ Dario fight, until Ryan relented, telling them how the cut wouldn’t close and Lonnie argued with the ref not to stop it but they stopped it anyway, Ryan way ahead on points, but there was too much blood.  A promising welter weight had died weeks before, so the media was up-in-arms and refs pulled the plug when bleeding started. 

 “And you quit the ring,” said Smitty.  “Walked away just like that.”

Ryan nodded because why waste words when a nod will do?  Why open your mouth about things they should know, when a deft motion will put it all away and to rest?  It was a lousy head butt and nothing to talk about.  D’ Dario had been hurt and desperate. Now it was all gone and he didn’t want to talk about it.  Just ancient history.

“Your hands were fast,” Smitty said, watching his head bouncer like a prize bull.  “Lightening fast.”

Ryan shot his drink while Cheri lined up another round, and she saw him quiet and too serious there, getting a nod from Smitty to just hand over a fresh bottle.  Hand him a brand new bottle to take upstairs and medicate, as Ryan called it.  Medicate with soundless sleep until the quiet day, tomorrow being Sunday.

Ryan ambled off as their small bar manager told Smitty he was giving away the good stuff, Smitty coming back with, “Ryan brings more customers in here than your goddamn dollar drink night,“ driving home the man’s popularity and draw from fight crowds in Providence and even New York, who would come on vacation and see the great undefeated boxer who walked away without a word, first time he was cheated on a major bout.

“That stuff is killing him,” Cheri said.  “Worse than all those stupid punches.” 

Smitty was not a cruel man and considered her words carefully, roiling surf out back talking for them now through big wall windows, the distant Point Judith lighthouse blinking in time to mark interior silence.

“See the Cambodian tonight?” he asked.

Cheri shrugged.  “Half the time you wouldn’t see him anyway, buried in the crowd.”

“Next time you catch his ear, send him up the steps,” meaning Smitty’s office, which shared the same hall as Ryan’s room. 

Cheri kind of smiled, because she knew how Smitty really cared, not wanting to use Ryan up like some kind of circus draw, knowing the brooding fighter would listen to that little Cambodian, who was the only person their head bouncer liked.

Ryan respected Smitty as his boss and landlord, but honored the Cambodian as some kind of close friend.  Smitty would use it to help get through that thick Irish skull.  The drinking had to stop and other things, like some kind of job other than living off old winnings.  The winnings would only deplete, and the booze would finish him in a classic, tragic sense that everyone knew about fighters.

But that was all last night as the weekend stumbled slowly into Sunday and now everything was quiet again.  Ryan sat before the window and thought maybe he should run a few miles, but the booze had taken him down hard and his other thoughts were of a toasted egg sandwich at the Captain’s Nest, to watch tourists and meet Sam (Samgang) for a run at the bluefish, if they were biting.

Was Sam in the bar last night?  He tried to think, but his mind wouldn’t work that way anymore, and he focused on the short squabble from last night, no punches there and the rugby players did their job.  No court to be coached for by Smitty on what to say when questioned.  No problems to go over.

Was Sam in the bar last night?  He tried to remember but couldn’t.

Was there a squabble?

Yes.  No problem though.  Way over capacity like every weekend, but no unwanted attention.

The surf sounded good, and he prepared to take a shower down the hall, but somehow got confused by a small television.

                                                    * * *

                                              Spirit Princess           

He ran on the beach road later and stopped suddenly, losing his stomach there with people in the distance, to remember that he had taken whiskey into early morning hours and wasn’t supposed to run.

He was on his knees for a few minutes and shaking badly, hating every second, because it was like getting knocked down and he had never been down, so the anger started and brought a few moments of clarity.

He remembered Sam and went back to shower, to try for the Captain’s Nest.

He told himself to check the time because time got away so much these days.  He got back and showered before he remembered the time, and saw that it was almost ten o’clock now. 

Sam would still be there if he hurried, but not too fast.  His driver’s license had been pulled and driving the big old Electra was a risk, so he had to be very careful, keeping eyes out for the occasional Statey or local cop, although local officers owed him for protecting one of their carousing wives on a busy night, and they would go easy.

She was drunk and squatting in the reeds to piss out back with a group of men starting to show interest, Smitty pointing this out from his office window to Ryan, who was immediately recognized as he approached, the fighter keeping his back to the officer’s wife as she finished and zipped-up, stumbling into the club for another go, but with a ride home at the end of it all from one of the rugby kids.

Now Ryan drove carefully out to the crossover, down long, smooth blacktop to where tourist traffic was snarled along the Sound, but he knew a back lot and parked between two old pickups, his expired license plate facing to hide from cruising police.

He walked quickly to the Nest and up old wooden steps, smelling salt air and feeling a breeze sting tired eyes, a turn of the stomach there where he waited things out and continued, into the dark bar restaurant with fried bacon in his nose and shadows before eyes could adjust.

He looked and looked again, circling slowly as the place quieted down, people watching, but no Cambodian as he circled again, the cook coming out with his dirty bib and greasy hair combed over, watching Ryan with the other people but back behind the counter, next to a small woman whose name Ryan tried but couldn’t remember.

“Have you checked behind Champlain’s?” the cook asked, Ryan stopping as people watched this exchange.

Ryan shook his head no.

“I think he came in for you earlier, and went fishing.”

“No,” the woman said.

The cook looked at her.  “No?”

“Oh,” she said, thinking.  “Maybe . . . the door was moving but nobody was there.  He looks quick like that and poof, he’s gone.  So maybe.”

The cook looked at her another few seconds and turned to Ryan, then shrugged.

Ryan nodded and left as someone said, “I told you he lives around here,” meaning Ryan but he was gone then, down the stairs and toward the Block Island Ferry, over to Champlain’s where he went around back and saw a small man dressed in black crouched next to a squid bucket, working the bay with a salt water rig, another setup on the ground waiting for Ryan.

Ryan went over to cast the baited hook and Sam turned, watching his big friend closely.

“Nothing bad last night,” Sam said.  “Just the one.”

Ryan nodded yes, watching the line Sam had rigged for him.

“Smitty comped you another bottle.”

Ryan worked his weighted line off the bottom as Sam turned back to the bay with a sigh. “Did you find sleep?’

Ryan nodded.

“How do you feel now?”

Ryan shrugged.

A seagull screamed high above the squid bucket, and Sam looked up.

“That is the ghost of Botum.  She was a child princess.”

Ryan looked up at the soaring princess.

“They tortured and raped her in my village, after we fled.  They took her as slave labor, but Botum chewed her wrist and died.”

Ryan reached down and grabbed a squid, then threw it out and up in a long arcing flight, where the seagull could intercept before it hit the water.

Sam nodded as if convinced of something, and reeled his weighted line off the ocean floor.  “I need to meet some friends over dinner tonight, in Boston.  The restaurant owner will fill our plates and refuse to take any money.  Can you come with me?”

Ryan nodded, watching the princess eat on a nearby dock, ripping the squid to pieces.

“There will be a Kung Fu demonstration later over on Kneeland Street.  Are you interested?”

Ryan shrugged.

They worked the lines for a while and Sam turned to his friend again, watching him closely.

“I notice something going on with you lately, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Ryan shrugged.

“You don’t talk much anymore.”

Ryan watched the princess coming back for more, so he threw a squid and appreciated the talents of one who could perform aerial demonstrations.

“What goes on here now?” Sam asked, tapping his head.  “What thoughts are flying around like our princess?”

Ryan looked at his friend and shrugged.  “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“They fly around and don’t stay still long.  Sometimes they disappear.”

The seagull landed and started shredding again.  There were no others in sight, and this convinced Sam that the bird was indeed Princess Botum.

“Eventually everything disappears.”

Ryan nodded.  “Time is a thief.”

Sam looked at his friend with a new perspective and nodded.

To be continued...

Dan McGinley was first published in 1990 while living above a seaside club called The Bon Vue Inn, where he worked five nights a week punching drunks and cleaning-up the result.  Bored with high society, he started slipping humorous short stories and articles under an office door of the Great Swamp Gazette, a magazine of art and literature at the University of Rhode Island, where he graduated in 1996, after being elected the Gazette’s Managing Editor for four consecutive years and  freelancing for the Providence Sunday Journal, Narragansett Times, and Westerly Sun.  Sabotage Press published two small books in 1992: Buddha at the Track and Trail of the Screaming Blue Fetus.  He also won two Nancy Potter Short Story awards, but since the name “Nancy Potter” draws big blank stares, forget about it.  More recently, his works have won, placed, and shown fourteen times in “America’s Funniest Humor!” contest, at HumorPress.com.  The Dog was at the Keg Again is a collection of HumorPress award pieces, and available at Amazon Kindle right about . . . NOW!  He lives with two Asian wolves and a neurotic Jack Russell in The Quiet Corner of northeastern Connecticut, from where he writes his popular blog at www.danmcginleyhumor.com. 

                                            

                                            CHAPTER NINE

                                              Lucilva Paley

6:50 p.m.

Fade In, Reggie thought.SOUND of RAIN; SOUND of LAPPING FIRE.

CLOSE-UP: Floating in wax at the top of a red candle, a flame flickers....FLIP-FOCUS: Mascara-lined eyes...a perfect, American nose...full, rosy-pink lips are moving....

Lucilva Paley fingered a thread of gold chain that draped around her neck and over a pale blue cashmere sweater. She was talking, but all Reggie heard was the flutter of the candle flame as her voice swept over it.

I am a damn film maker, he wanted to tell her. He wasn't some punk. But he couldn't say it. She had no interest in his creative mind; she wanted someone to make a hundred pounds of crank.

He dipped his last piece of tri-tip in horseradish sauce and ate it. Otto Steiger’s voice rushed through his mind. The Mission. How could he ask her about her mother? He'd find an opening.

The dining room was situated in one tip of the Paley's lightning bolt-shaped house. "I always liked this house," he said.

"Father built it in '58." She tossed her thick, brown hair off her shoulders. "He designed it, built it, landscaped it, furnished it–it'll always be his." Her pensive eyes roamed the mirrored walls, the open-beamed ceilings, the love seat in front of a cavernous stone hearth. "If there's a flaw anywhere in this house, he put it there on purpose."

With the exception of the spacious window with a panoramic view of town, the walls were covered ceiling to floor in mirrors. It gave the room the tricky appearance of a fun house. In the candlelight and firelight, the multiple images that dominoed into infinity in the mirrors were haunting.

"Was your mother around when it was built?" he asked.

She set down her fork. A grimace furrowed her forehead. In the silence, she stared at him, chewing so sensuously that he could barely take his eyes from her lips. She swallowed. "No." A thought rose in her face. Her nose wrinkled. "You like little girls, don't you?"

"Little girls?" he replied, noting she had quickly changed the subject.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"And how old is your...girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend?"

Lucilva raised her straight-lined eyebrows. She was after something and he didn't like it. "Your little companion up the hill."

"Jackie?"

"Aw, we connect. Yes, Jackie. She's what? Sixteen, seventeen?"

"Eighteen next Friday–but wait a minute. How'd you know about her?"

"Who do you think alerted me to your predicament at the police station?"

"She's here?"

"Parked in the motorhome up the hill on our property."

He started to get up.

"She's fine. Finish your dinner."

"Why didn't you tell me she was here?"

"I just did."

"Earlier."

"What was the point? I want you to know, I don't like her here. She's in the way. Kids are more trouble than they're worth. Besides, she's a meth head."

"Don't look at me. I don't do drugs. A little pot, but no booze, or pills, or coke–and no crank."

"So who got her slammin'–I think that's the word–who got her slammin' speed?"

"Herself. Let's not get into this. This has nothing to do with you. Your father wanted a quick burn–one score–and then I was out of the picture. Everything else about me is none of your business."

"It's all my business," she said, placing her napkin beside her plate. She rose and walked to the window. She opened the louvered section and a breeze fluttered her black, Chinese pants. When she raised up on her tiptoes to move the lever, Reggie envisioned a graceful beast of beauty–a cheetah, a panther–something fast and clever. Something carnivorous.

"You grew up in the San Fernando Valley and went to high school for a whole year. You attended Hollywood Arts Experimental College, where you studied filmmaking and made a documentary at age 24 about careers or something–won an award. You worked as a stuntman in a couple Burt Reynolds movies. And then you didn't do much of anything for almost three years, until you met Otto Steiger. Being Father's investigator for years, he called him when he wanted certain things, as you know, and, I suppose, that's where you came into the picture."

"There you go again," she said, pointing at him with the poker.

"What?" Reggie asked.

"You, like, fade out. You look straight at me, but you don't see me. Your eyes go woozy like you're day-dreaming, and then you're...gone."

Reggie rose from the table, pointed his finger at his temple. Don’t tell her about the monster. Too weird. "It's the right side of my brain taking over," he admitted. "It beats the hell out of the left side with a few sinister thoughts and the left side plays dead for awhile."

This, she liked. She took a cigarette from a pack lying on the fireplace mantle and lit it. As he walked towards the love-seat in the sitting room area, Reggie watched her face turn into a healthy big grin, before she erupted into mischievous laughter.

Reggie chuckled with her, but he had to work at picturing himself the way she'd described, his eyes going woozy–getting that faraway look–and blanking out. Had to look like a screwball. It was the movies in his brain...they were so clear–clearer than any dream he ever remembered. If he ever got the chance to direct a film again, he'd be ready with this...what was it? Gift? Talent? What?

Lucilva poked the orange embers, stirred up sparks.

"You're doing it again," she said. "Are you sick or what? Don't let me depend on you if you're screwed up on something."

"I'm clean and sane," he assured her. "And I have one of the best alchemists in the business ready to cook. Problem is, you got me out and not him."

"That's because you didn't do it and your partner was holding."

"How do they know I didn't do it? And what about the dog? I killed it."

"I told Tom Lee you couldn't have robbed my father's grave. And nobody but Sam Poteet cared about that damn dog."

"You told them I didn't do it and they believed you."

"Why would I lie to them? It was my father's body that got–"

"But how do you know I didn't do it?"

Lucilva hesitated. "I have proof."

"Terrific. What?"

She slunk over to the love-seat, sat and cautiously said: "I can't tell you that."

Reggie grunted. He turned away and banged into a telephone on a tiny table at the end of the love-seat. He caught it before it tumbled off. He hated unidentified flying favors hanging over his head.

"Would you like to listen to some music, or–"

"Pulling pure meth from industrial chemicals ain't easy," he interrupted. "I need Ivan. Got the word from Josh you want 100 pounds. That'll take time."

"Don't worry about Ivan," she sighed. "I've arranged for Dan Birdforth, who happens to be my cousin and a great lawyer, to appear at his arraignment tomorrow. Dan said the cops got 27 grams of pot–a gram short of an ounce. It's a lousy infraction. He is clean, right?"

"Yeah. So why they holding him if they only got 27 grams? The D.A. ought to let him go."

"Well," she said, halting long enough to bite her lip and think about it, "they don't know they only have 27 grams–yet."

Lucilva drug the last puff from her cigarette and flicked the butt into the fire like a punk on a street corner. "He'll be out tomorrow, I promise."

"No more surprises." He paced in front of the fire. "You let me in on what's going on as it goes–not later."

"If you're not happy with the pecking order, I can find another cook. You're here because...because my father wanted you to be here. He made a deal with you. I'm only carrying out his wishes."

That didn't ring true. "How noble," he said, softening the sarcasm with a tight-lipped grin. He stepped away from the fire and sat on the arm of the love-seat.

She entwined her fingers like a nun, cupped them under her chin, then slowly lowered them. She thrust her two index fingers at him like a double-barreled shotgun. Her flat eyebrows rolled down over her eyes. Cast in shadow, her eye sockets were black holes. "You are expendable."

He didn't believe it. She was too smart for that. The burn would net a million dollars. She wouldn't keep him just because her father liked him. But she would keep him. The chemicals were coming. The connection was arranged. Finding a meth cook, not already working for the bikers, would take time–and she didn't have time. Josh said it. It had to be done quick. The deal was in motion. And her father was dead. There was no stopping it now.

The phone rang. In a moment, a young Salvadoran woman came to the door of the sitting room. "Mr. Quinn, ma'am."

Lucilva excused herself and left the room. Why didn't she take the call in here? Reggie slid down from the arm to the love- seat, eyed the telephone beside it. He tilted the receiver up so he could get a finger on the dial-tone button. Receiver at his ear, he held his breath until he got his finger off the button and his hand over the mouthpiece. He exhaled.

"...and I don't think it's a joke," a familiar, proper male voice was saying.

"Where am I supposed to get fifty thousand dollars?" Lucilva said, hushed.

"I know, dearie; they're sons-of-bitches."

"He was my father...but why...why would I pay to get back his body?"

"Who knows how sons-of-bitches think? Maybe they figure you'd pay out of respect–or loyalty."

"Respect? My father dies of a stroke and leaves me with a mountain of bills. The avalanche falls any day."

"I understood Chris had cash."

"He was in worse shape than anyone knows. Feds were on his butt, so he started selling things short."

"Oh, honey. I'm sorry. I had no idea. Why didn't you tell me?"

"What could you do? No one could do anything. Father had his way of doing things and no one told him otherwise. I don't know, John. Maybe I could raise the money. I might have to."

There was dead air. Reggie heard clicking sounds. "You know, today, when I dropped off the city charter for Monday's council meeting, the gate phone rang. I couldn't get into the office. I had to run all the way into the kitchen. Was there a reason it was locked?"

Dead air again. "Yes." Lucilva hesitated. "Amalia has family working at the bank, and, you know, the bank's under investigation, so I don't want her in there snooping around."

"Very smart of you, dearie. Don't trust anybody." He laughed. "Not even me."

She laughed back. "Who else can I trust if not you, John?"

"Do you love me?" he said dramatically but insecure.

"Yes, John."

"Does Josh suspect anything?" A trickle of fear in his voice.

"That you love me? Of course not." She sighed harshly, and the years of smoking made it sound hollow. "Josh and I had the same father, not the same mother."

"I know."

"Then you also know that my little brother is a homicidal orangutan with an attention span about as long as a monkey's tail, and if there aren't drugs around, he won't pay any attention.

"That's what I thought," the man said. He sounded wimpier by the second to Reggie. "At Monday's city council meeting, we're going to carry the vote. You'll make a wonderful–and beautiful–mayor."

"So it's in there?"

"Haven't you read the charter? It's in there. Chris put it there. His heir has legal authority to take over his position in the event of his death–with a majority of the council's approval. You have me, you have the doc."

"That's only half the council."

"Even in death, Chris's vote counts. That's three. Dearie, I still don't understand why you want this headache. You have so much to do now with Chris gone."

"The name of this town is Paley. That's why."

"May I be so bold as to give you some advice then?"

"Yes, John."

"Give the people a chance to buy back the land. Keep your father's promise. Turn Paley into a real community."

"What would you call it now?"

"A giant theme park. Except nobody goes home at the end of the day."

Lucilva snorted. She didn't like the characterization.

"Don't take it wrong. It's just that...well, people in town are talking. There was a government vehicle seen up at your place on a couple of occasions last month. A man was seen in town, too. Drove all over. Didn't stop. Just looked. What's going on with that?"

"I honestly have no idea. Father knew lots of people. Maybe it was the Bank Board. They've been harassing us for weeks."

"Oh, honey. I'm sorry. You're having a terrible time, aren't you, and I'm not helping matters at all."

"It's okay."

"I'd come up and keep you company, but...well, Amalia said you have a man over for dinner."

"Yes. And he's patiently waiting for me."

"Would he be the same Neanderthal-looking fellow from L. A. who's been getting all those goodies for Chris?"

Reggie's hand slipped off the mouthpiece and his mouth opened. A distant rapping of an engine anchored his tongue from giving him away. He was going to look out the window and see what was out there, but he didn't want to miss the rest of the call.

"That's my business, John. And you shouldn't be talking about it."

"You know, don't you, that your dinner guest came by your house this afternoon looking for you–with a shotgun. He parked down the road. Walked up the driveway in the rain. All that tells me he had something up his sleeve–or, shall I say, down his loincloth."

"There you go," Lucilva said lightly, "staging life, always directing the facts into some...some improvisational fantasy."

"There's a thought."

"He had a fight with my brother. He was trying to avoid him, that's all."

"Well, I called November. He picked him up on the road. Your dinner guest threatened him with the shotgun."

"Threatened him?"

"Something about being run over by a pick-up that resembled November's old piece of junk. Point is, he's not a stable person. Be careful."

"I will."

"You and I need to have dinner. There's things to discuss. Honoring Chris's pledge. And The Plunge."

"I already told you. Your vote, your support, and it'll be quitclaimed back."

"Wasn't right what Chris did to my father to get it."

"John, not right now. In the morning, alright?"

"I didn't like your father, you know. But I think it would be a wise, if not politically resourceful, choice to get his body back. Perhaps they'll take less money."

"You might be right. I'll try to come up with some money. Won't be easy."

In the following silence, Reggie recognized the clicking sounds. Crickets. Was he outside? Using one of those cellular phones?

"I'm sorry," John said. "I'm not helping, am I? Get back to your dinner with Fred Flintstone."

"Thanks for your support, John."

"Love you, dearie."

She hung up. Reggie dropped the phone into its cradle and stood up. He stared at himself in the mirrored wall beside the fireplace.

Fred Flintstone! A caveman with a civilized expression, for sure--nonetheless, I resemble...the Apple computer guy--Steve Wozniak--without all the facial hair!

He wasn't handsome. Brown shaggy hair, dominating eyebrows, a flat forehead, a low rocky jaw line, and that monstrous mouth, full of teeth. Maybe Lucilva's caller was right. He looked very Neanderthal. But be felt like....

"What are you doing?" Lucilva said behind him.

He spun around and shrugged. "Thinking."

She came to him, stood close. He smelled the wine on her breath, her rose-scented perfume. He felt a self-conscious desire come over him.

"What was I saying?" she asked.

"That I was expendable."

"Don't take it personally."

Outside, in the distance, was an eerie wailing. It stopped abruptly. Lucilva turned in the direction of the hill behind the house. Another short wail, a gasping scream, like a dying animal...or a little girl playing.

Reggie's body tensed. "What was that?" His senses pitched to listen.

"An animal, I think. Can't tell."

"What kind of animal screams like that?"

"Rabbit. When a coyote gets it."

Reggie looked out the picture window. He could see most of the driveway, but there was nothing there. He would've sworn he heard a motorcycle. The rain had paused. Far below in the valley he saw the black hole off to his right to the east. That was The Plunge. And then...something slowly pierced his skull at the base of his neck. At first he thought it was going to be one of those neck spasms he got when he was uptight. It turned into a creepy shiver. It exploded into an image of Chris Paley–short, fat, saggy-jowled, perpetual tan, a full head of white hair–standing at the same window gazing over his desert like a king.

Another scream–long and clearly human.

Instinctively, Reggie ran through the dining room, through a hall, turned right into a huge family room in the rear, charged onto a porch, down the stone-lined stairs and into the back-40 of the Paley estate. Mud sucked his shoes down as he ran through the grove of fruit trees. He hurdled irrigation troughs that traversed the hill. He came to a shed halfway to the crest of the hill. From the left in the grove, a deep voice swore in a staggered huff. Reggie sunk to mid-calf in mud, pressed his body against and watched around the corner of the rain-soaked shed.

The man resembled a fat fairy-tale ogre, covered head to boot in mud, as he staggered through the trees. He fell. Mud sucked around his legs and arms. He swore again. When the man rose, he stepped out of the grove. Distant light from the house shone on the face of Josh Paley. He'd come from the top of the hill, where the motorhome was parked.

Reggie rushed around the back of the shed and blindly ran up the hill aiming for the top through the trees. Half-way up, he saw the motorhome in silhouette and ran faster.

Something tripped him. He lurched forward, lost his balance and cracked his head on a low tree branch. Pain shot through him; rain-water spilled from the leaves and soaked him. Then something groaned. All he could see was black ooze. Then a moving figure, covered in mud, drew him to look closer.

The nude girl groaned as she rolled to her back. Her eyes widened with fright.

"Jackie, it's me, Reggie." He took her naked body in his arms. She resisted, pushing away and flailing her arms. "I'm here, it's alright." Her black hair matted against her face. Slowly, as recognition came to her, she wrapped her arms around him. She squeezed him so tight it took his breath away.

As she cried softly in his shirt, he lifted her out of the mud.

Jackie's voice quivered. Barely audible, she said:

"He raped me."

Reggie rocked her gently, trying to feel in control, while his hatred and anger boiled in his stomach and turned the meal into a bomb.

"It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay." He kissed the top of her head and carefully lead her down the hill. She held on to him around his waist and nestled her head under his arm.

"I want to go home," she wept. "I want to go home."

Reggie wished the image of Josh Paley out of his mind. The lightning bolt-shaped house came into view again. He stopped. A sucking sound. He turned.

From the night sky came a silver flash and he instinctively ducked. Then he felt the burst of pain as it came down hard on his back, causing him to release Jackie, dropping her into the mud. He couldn’t move his feet in the mud fast enough to square up to the attack and swung wildly, connecting with the body of a man, who merely grunted. And then he saw who it was and what he had in his hand. The piece of pipe came down before he could react.

Fade To Black.

        It's been awhile since I've written a "Short Short," which is a story under 150 words as defined by The American Writer.  I took a much longer short story and modified it to this short-short version.  I meant to post this for Wednesday's post but work kept me away from a computer all day.  So here it is:


                                Sideshow
                        

        Lights. Cameras. Reporters. My courtroom’s a sideshow. A Killer and a Witness–brothers--stand before me. The room’s hushed. Killer grins back at me, knowing I can’t pass the death penalty, can’t even incarcerate him, without punishing his brother, too.

        I turn my attention to the Witness. "I can’t punish you for something your brother did. Do you still deny knowing your brother had a weapon and intended to kill Mr. Rasmussen?"

        Joined from head to hip to his Siamese twin, Killer Brother twists his torso and spears Witness Brother with a deadly gaze. Witness closes his eyes against Killer’s familial influence. Then, bravely, Witness sacrifices himself.

        "I knew my brother was going to kill the owner of the circus," Witness lies, allowing me to punish the Killer.

              Months ago I asked my good friend, Louis Kraft, to contribute something to The American Writer.  Life and his hectic writing schedule held up any pieces from him, but he finally wrote something that, I think, will awaken the marketing monster that sleeps way too soundly in each of us.  
                                          

        Louis Kraft became interested in the West in the 1970s; in particular, he became interested in people who didn’t speak the same language but who were able to work out their differences without killing each other. To understand these people and the land they inhabited, he immersed himself in their struggle for survival. In the mid-1980s he began writing and lecturing about them. THE FINAL SHOWDOWN (Walker and Company, 1992) explores racial relations in 1867 Kansas; CUSTER AND THE CHEYENNE: GEORGE ARMSTRONG CUSTER’S WINTER CAMPAIGN ON THE SOUTHERN PLAINS (Upton and Sons, 1995) follows Custer’s 1868–1869 winter campaign on the Southern Plains; and GATEWOOD & GERONIMO (University of New Mexico Press, 2000) examines the relationship between the two pre-eminent warriors of the last Apache war. Not finished with Gatewood, Kraft pieced together and edited the lieutenant’s aborted attempt to write about his years walking among the Apaches--LT. CHARLES GATEWOOD & HIS APACHE WARS MEMOIR (2005). Look for the publication of his next book, NED WYNKOOP: WALKING BETWEEN THE RACES (University of Oklahoma Press) in Fall 2010 or Spring 2011.
  
        Over the last seven years, Louis and I have toured his one-man show about Ned Wynkoop around the country.  He works his tail off and acts; I have fun and direct him and the local crew.  Oh, and that photo?  He's not that good looking.  He's expert at Photoshop.

        So, without further doo-doo, here's some simple, sage advice from a writer with a niche who knows how to carve one out.   

                        Who Do You Know?
                                by Louis Kraft

        Hey, fellow writers, this is key: Who do you know? When I was young and foolish--a million years ago--I used to quote Greta Garbo: "I vant to be alone." This doesn't cut it.  Let me repeat that statement: This doesn't cut it. If you want to sell your writing, it is your job to know the people who can help you.

        Who do you know? This cannot be under-emphasized. Who do you know? No matter how much we may despise this short question, I can't tell you how important it is.

        Okay ... you don't know anyone. This is a major problem for most writers. You must figure out who the key people are in the market in which you want to write, and more importantly, how to meet them. Well, if you are like most people, there are no open doors. This means you must find a way to get to them. I write nonfiction that for the most part deals with race relations during the Indian wars period. I am a member of the Western History Association. I have gone to their conventions not to learn but to hang out in the book room with buying editors for about 35 publishing houses. It is my job to be on a first-name basis with them. I need to know what they publish and they need to know what I write (now and in the future). I want an open door to call them at any time, and, more importantly, for them to know who I am when I call.

        Other major organizations include Western Writers of America (fiction and nonfiction), Mystery Writers or America, and Romance Writers of America. If you have a desire to write in these markets/genres, get to their conventions and meet the key people.

        If your writing is mainstream fiction, who are the agents and who are the editors at the publishing houses? How can you get an inside track with them. If you know someone who is an insider, use them. If not, what about a writer whose work you respect and whose work is published by a house you want to use? Can you find the contact information for this writer? I hope so. Next to actors, writers are the biggest suckers in the whole world. I don't mean this to be negative. These people are sensitive and they care. If you find a way to invade a writer's life, don't do it as a mercenary. Instead, do it as a person who is interested in their work. If you do this carefully, you can create a relationship. If you can get to this point, you now have a key player who can make an introduction for you.

        There are no set ways to open doors. You must be creative.