BOOK III, the ugly.
Murder mysteries
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BOOK III, the ugly. by Whittaker, Glenn Harding jr.
Copyright 01-21-1993 TXU 552 271
A DEED . . . . . . . .deed
UNUSUAL CRIME SERIES
STOLEN STONES . . . stones
FRENCH TRIANGLE . .triangle
THE ROYALE ROAD . .road
THE MAGNET . . . .magnet
TERRORIST GROUP 7/L . . . terror
WAITIN' . . . . . . . waitin
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS . . . . . . . . .comments
ABOUT THE AUTHOR . . . . . . . . . . .author
Away, away with ye, ye mongrels! Don't tear at me cuffs. Back ye off afore I kick in ye teeth. I mean ye nothin'. I brin' ye no harm. Ye bent tailed curs, leave me to meself. I say, get on to ye kennels.
There ye beast, that should keep ye howlin'. I promised ye no harm, till me cuff ye tore. So tis even we are. Ye got a piece of me pants and I got ye tooth in me boot.
Johnson, my man, have ye the sleep from ye eyes? This morn we have an appointment, ye recall. One that will excuse no tardiness. I say man, do ye hear me? Come along, come along. We must hasten; the widow's ah waitin'.
Ah Johnson, here ye are. Have ye everythin' we need? I was thinkin' ye were dead in ye bed. Ye know this commission she's engaged us for pays handsomely. I need those coins more surely than yourself. Tempted I was to bash in the door. Ye arrival has saved your hinges. Ye have all we need? There'll be no time to return for forgotten items. Good then. Let us be on, the sun soon peers over the trees.
Ah what a loverly morn this day is. Look there, the mother robin carryin' off the tree grub to her hungry brood. The little darlin's ah cryin' for anythin' mama might brin' 'em. She works her tail off ah findin' 'em morsels for their screamin' mouths. All day, every day till the light dims and she can rest.
Heedin' 'em, warmin' 'em from the night's cool and ah coverin' 'em from the earth's shower. Then always havin' to chase 'em blood hungry black bird devils. Ye know those ravens will pick the very eyes from every babe robin within two days walk, just for the pleasure I think. Some day I'll do just that. I'll kill every one of them black heathens.
Yea, a mother robin's life is harder than most any creature I can think of. Then the saddest of time comes. She shows 'em how to fly. Flip flop off they flutters an plop to the ground they lie. The lucky ones manage to make the tree limbs again. The weak and unfortunate get ate by 'em lazy night snoopin' cats, 'em sandstone tongued cats, maybe some day I'll kill all them too. Yea I'd like that, I'll bet cats are real tasty in stew.
Now Johnson as I said yesterday, we are to be the pillars of absolute discretion. The widow was very explicit. Not a word are we to give anyone, nay not even to the priest in his gossip box on Saturday. Sin or no, I care not what he might think.
We are bein' paid a year's wages for this one day's work. A moral man I be too, as ye be. But this money feeds us. Bread, meat and ale. The priest's morals are fine for his shelves are full and his belly is fat. And after tonight with the widow's money full in our pockets, we too can be moral men again. Let us enter her gate now; least from fear ye forget ye shelves are as bare as mine. And tomorrow ye children be cryin' just like those babe robins awaitin' their grub.
Johnson hold ye tongue and do only as I instruct. Remember what we do, the widow so wishes. Therefore the service we provide this lady is moral. Her moments left are few. Our duty is clear; we do as she beckons for she has paid us. Enough said, ready then. Good. Let us go, she awaits us 'round back in the garden.
One week later
Yes Judge that is the truth of the matter. We were paid handsomely to provide the final wishes of the widow. She was dyin' slow pain, ye know, a tumor. We were to find her in the garden. We were to approach her slowly, silently. We were to tear off her garments. And I was to snuggle her breasts while Johnson bit her buttocks.
She stood very quietly, I must say.
We laid her on the grass and kissed her womb. Johnson and I were to come in her till she passed out, from pleasure or pain I'm not sure. We did get quite enthusiastic and she was such a fragile old thing. But, that is what she wanted.
We built her funeral pyre. Carried her to the top and tied her hands and feet. We awoke her with a bucket of water. And after she was fully awake we began pilin' wood under the pyre. We then lit the wood afire.
As the first flames touched her withered skin, we each took our knives and slit her wrists. Her blood singed the flames and she was encased by a rose haze, but she had too little blood to quelsh the fire. And after an hour had passed we could not distinguish her ashes from the wood's.
She remained silent the entire time, I must say.
On the garden table lay our wages in this very sack and this letter of instructions written in her very hand addressed as you've read to me. This letter she said was to safeguard us from prosecution. Furthermore, she had sent a similar letter to her lawyer. I do suppose it is by his actions that we are here.
Later that night
Well Johnson, the judge's tone was quite harsh, but then he is a moral man. And I must confess a twinge of guilt after his lecture to us. Yet he had to concede to our lawyer's point, we were paid to conduct a service for our client just as our lawyer had been paid to provide a service for us. Our service may be on the fringe of moral law, but we were not outside legal law.
Yes my friend our shelves are full again and we are free men.
Ah yes Mr. Johnson, I have further news. A letter from a widow in North Brook arrived today requestin' our very services. Things are lookin' up. Do you think we should place an ad in The Times?
### the end. Spring 1978.
RETURN TO INDEX index
Deep within a forgotten cavern, two forms sat huddled on dried pine needles aside a squat table.
"Those dead are mine," snarled Heratix as his pen glided over a county map dotted with x's. "And I want their stones gathered on the next dark moon."
"But master, the police will not understand. They'll arrest our workers."
"Fool! They will understand and they will be afraid. And only through fear will they have the strength to attack our workers. You must distract them. Cause them trouble. Burn down buildings far from the grave sites."
"Yes master, yes! That will work," rumbled Crog as he wrung his fingers over his knuckles. Eyes afire, a sinister smile shattered his solemn mask. He peered over the map, calculating the necessary logistics to carry out his master's plans.
Heratix overheard Crog's counting, he burst-out, "Fool! There are more, many more that are mine. Hundreds more. You must measure everyone by your own laziness. You fool! One year's work is this." And from his desk drawer Heratix pulled out a state map. He opened it and spread it carefully atop the desk.
Crog's eyes bulged; his mouth gaped as he mumbled, "Thousands and thousands?"
"Yes Crog, thousands. Eighty thousand to be exact. The Lord Wraith gave me this circuit," Heratix sneered, sweeping his palms over the map. "And I have canvassed each site diligently this last, long year. Promises, promises, promises to the lonely dead, the forgotten.
Hungry souls relinquish easily. So easily to promises, promises to see, to hear, to feel, to be again.
Some Crog, withstood, choosing to wait. Holdouts to their faith. A judgement day, they await. And wait they will; an eternity they will wait. The fools.
Bound by Death's rules, they are and they aren't. To know and to not. Even nothingness they aren't. Frozen moments they chose. Circles of finite memories. Spiraling beyond and behind their past and their present. Fearing, yet hoping of a judgement future, they wait. They are fools.
To be again I offer them, days and years, decades some. Riches and fame, power and glory, even love. 'Nay, nay,' they cried, 'I wait. Cold, frozen, forgotten, yet I wait.' Those stones I marked. You will take them anyway. Keep them separate for Lord Wraith. The others are mine. New workers to aid my hoards. Monuments they will erect. Lord Wraith will be pleased and extend my boundaries."
Heratix raised his arms, spread his fingers and swept them counterclockwise drawing strength from his hoards. They echoed 'release' and shriveled weakly as Heratix expanded, drawing in their energy.
Crog knelt down on one knee, bowing his head, slowly raising his eyes to behold, jealously, his master's prowess.
Whirling his form, Heratix opened his mind to suck his hoards' energy within himself, renewing his form. "With the stone castle completed, I will have eighty thousand more to draw from. Then few will withstand my promises. More souls to add to my hoards. More strength, more power. Ha, ha, ha, ha," Heratix chuckled. His grin changing to grimace as his eyes distanced into the future he longed for, "From Scout to Master to Lord Heratix, all in three years, Crog."
Crog smiled for he was apprenticed to this up and coming lord. As such, he could become a scout and maybe, if he learned his lessons well, a master. "Master Heratix, what promises are most effective?"
"Heh? So Crog you begin to hunger for your own hoard. As well you should. I wondered when you would begin your lessons. When Lord Wraith assigned you to me, he said you had much potential, yet lacked ambition. He instructed me to await your questions, then only would I begin your lessons. Your hunger stems from my successes, I think, as it should. Yet your lessons must await the stone gathering. I will answer your first question, then we have much to ready before the moon darkens." Heratix stared deep into the coals, flexing his memory on his last crusade. Crog noted his tranced state and sat patiently.
The room stilled. The coals froze under his stare and turned into a picture of him standing amidst gravestones. The darkness was broken by the moon's reflection of him in deep snow. His hands out-stretched, palms downward as he called to the dead.
"I am Heratix, redeemer of souls, salvation to the forgotten. Awake! Awake you dead. Hear my call. Heed my words. For I offer any and all life anew. To be again. To join the living, free from Death's silence. Free again to see, to be, to feel the sun, to ride winds, to wander the lands. I am Heratix. Hear me you frozen dead. I offer you life.
For what price you ask? Little is the cost. You lived, you died, now you are bound here aside your carcasses. Pledge to me your servitude and you will have a living form again. Do my works for life anew.
You Mrs. Stacy. You who have lain dead, dead and forgotten these 60 years. Frozen, cold memories you are and always will be. Alive again? Shall you? A bird, a cat, a lion, a man, a girl again? What have you? What would you be again? A soaring eagle? So easily you could be. Alive just one more time. A woman?
A growing girl to womanhood you wish? Yes, it is yours. Yours to be again, then afterwards to me you will serve. A long second life in trade for your servitude. Or would you hold onto another cold, long forgotten 60 years of dead?
Life you choose Mrs. Stacy? Fine. It is as you want."
Heratix glides over to the gravestone marked May Stacy, Feb 1840 - Oct 1921 and places his palms over the grave, raising them slowly to shoulder height, separating them to encompass Mrs. Stacy's form. He circles his hands and draws them together to his chest. Then he throws his hands forth to the night.
"Mrs. May Stacy to be again. A girl to womanhood. A long life."
Heratix breaks his stare and the picture fades back to burning coals. He turns toward Crog, smiling, "Promises, promises, promises. Touch on their memories, their feelings and again they will want to be, then they are yours. Another to add to the hoard when their life anew ends. How simple it really is, don't you agree Crog?"
Crog blinks awake and digests Heratix's words. His gaze breaks into a smile and he nods in agreement, mumbling, "Are they all that easy?"
Heratix smiles, "Most, yes most. The strong souls require more finesse, yet the effort is rewarded when they join the hoard. The greater the promises they elicit, the greater the service to the hoard. So endeth your first lesson Crog."
At twilight across the reservation in every chieftain's teepee appeared Heratix. His form emerging from a gray smoke. The chiefs sat back awonder, in fright and in awe.
Heratix extended his arms in welcome saying, "I am Heratix, Oh mighty chief. I am Master Gatherer of the white man's dead. I come in peace. Be not alarmed, I speak to you in vision. I speak at once to every chief in this reservation.
I offer your tribe three days work at $1000 dollars per worker. I need 10,000 workers for construction work, men or women; they must be strong. They will move 80,000 white man's sacred stones to my timberland and build my castle. This will be your greatest coup, Oh mighty chiefs. Will your people do my work? What say you each tonight, tomorrow you can confer in council."
Each chief said yes; contingent on their council's approval.
Heratix continued then, "Excellent, Oh mighty warriors, each has agreed. Tomorrow you will council. And that evening my trucks will begin arriving at your trading posts. Have your workers ready then." Heratix closed his arms across his shoulders and nodded goodbye as his form hazed into gray smoke, finally disappearing.
The convoy convened from the Four Corners of the country to Albuquerque, New Mexico. They were of Heratix's International Transporting firm. So well scattered across the country they traveled the highways unobtrusively. As each driver approached, he was radioed directions to one of the reservation's twenty trading posts.
Under the dark of twilight, one hundred of the tribe's strongest were loaded aboard each truck. With the chiefs paid and the workers loaded, the drivers reversed their routes. By morning, ten thousand New Mexican Indians were enroute to do Heratix's bidding for three days.
The thousand trucks were branched into smaller groups. Spanned many hours apart, all converging toward the middle of Southern Missouri. By the following mid-day the last convoy had arrived. And by evening, 200 tepees had been erected in the center of Heratix's timberland post.
The next day the Indian workers sat around their campfires feasting and telling old stories while the truck drivers received their gravesite assignments and routes. Recruits for firebombing were chosen by the Indians and then the teams were given their maps and firebomb training.
By twilight's end the stories were told, the campfires were out and the workers were truck-bound toward their gravesites. As the convoys split at the forks and the crossroads, a silent thought passed through them.
The lead trucks headed the convoys with time enough to circle the town's edge opposite the graveyards, dropping the fire-squads near their targets. Then they headed out past their sites and circled around to join the arriving others.
While the fires drew the local officials, the trucks drove to the darkest corner of the graveyards. The doors opened and the Indians released their silent war cries. Throughout the dark night new fires began, keeping the police and the fire departments very occupied.
By four a.m. graveyards were minus their headstones and the trucks were on the road unnoticed. With dawn's light the last convoy lumbered into Heratix's timberland, then stopped by the castle building site to have their stones transferred to the up going castle.
The holdout's stones were stacked into a wishing-well for Lord Wraith.
Heratix's stones were laid flat, forming his trapezoidal castle. He had designed the first floor as a complex maze. Open doorways lead from the Four Corners into the center. From the center four sets of steps outlined a courtyard up to the second story living rooms. He tiered the roof with guard walks around a mirrored solar-radiance collector.
By dusk the castle was completed, the tepees dismantled into bundles of firewood and the workers were aboard the trucks. The convoy spaced itself onto the roadways, following the routes they'd come.
As dawn approached, the last truck emptied its workers at their trading post and headed homeward. That day there was much celebration around the campfires.
That evening Heratix reappeared in each chieftain's teepee to give them his thanks, "Oh mighty chiefs, again you are as warriors. Your workers are a credit to their fallen fore fathers. You have clipped the white man and put fear into his heart. You have put even an old score long due. May your poets remember this day and the name of Heratix in their fables. I bid you a very long life. Goodbye until we meet again."
Heratix again crosses his arms to his shoulders and fades away into the disappearing gray smoke.
Reaction #1
A breeze blew through the pines and across the vacant Centerville graveyard, forcing Mrs. Bennett to duck her chin into her coat-collar. Her eyes focused on the barren ground before her. She had gone to the middle of the cemetery before she realized something was amiss. She stopped, raised her head into the cold and glanced about the yard for her parents' markers.
She turned a slow circle in look for the graves. There were no markers in sight. She glanced about to gather her bearings. There was the town behind her. There was the path she'd always traveled and it lead right to the southern edge of the cemetery, just 30 feet away. "Then," she reasoned, "I must be in the cemetery."
Again she turned a slow circle, her eyes darting across the empty marker places. Suddenly she dropped the bouquet she'd brought for her parents. Softly she muttered, "The stones are gone. All of them gone." Mrs. Bennett crossed herself slowly and tiptoed back to the path and turned to look again at the empty graveyard.
"Yes," she said, "they're all gone." She crossed herself again, blinked her eyes, patted her face briskly, blinked her eyes again, shook her head and turned to walk to the sheriff's office. There, she pounded on the door until the deputy roused from his slumber.
"Mornin' Mrs. Bennett. What brings you about so early? Cat in the tree?" torted the sleepy eyed deputy.
"Deputy Smythe, not my cat this time. Worse. A crime. A monstrous crime has been committed at the cemetery. Come, come along quickly," she stated and turned to walk back to the empty graveyard.
"Whoa, Mrs. Bennett. We'll take the squad car," called out Smythe. In one quick turn he grabbed his coat, hat and gloves and was out the door, aside the squad car holding the door open for her before she'd stepped off the sidewalk.
In she climbed thanking him warmly. He then pranced around the front and sat himself behind the wheel. Fired up the engine and headed toward the cemetery with the sirens screaming. Five quick minutes later they arrived in the cemetery parking lot. He jumped-out the car, coming around to open her door. She climbed out and they stood looking over the cemetery.
Finally Deputy Smythe commented, "Ahh, Mrs. Bennett. I don't see anything or anyone here."
"Yes officer. That's just it. There is nothing here."
"What are you talking about?" he raised up his hat.
"Look around deputy. The stones, where are they. My parents', all of them are gone. They're gone, all gone." circling her arms.
Deputy Smythe's face cringes as his eyes spot over the empty places. "Why Mrs. Bennett you're right. All the markers are gone." He meanders into the cemetery looking carefully at the indentations. At the northern perimeter he looks at the wood line before him, then walks into the trees. Minutes later he exits further along the edge.
He spies Mrs. Bennett and shakes his head saying, "The woods were empty."
Reaction #2
The entire congregation of the First Baptist Church of Cabool left the church singing, "When the Saints Go Marching In." They entered their vehicles on an upbeat and started their engines on a downbeat. Then filed onto the hard road behind the hearse, headlamps all alight.
As the procession ambled through the vacant streets toward the cemetery, the members continued their singing. Arriving on a downbeat, they turned off their engines and exited aside their cars bringing their song to a finish.
All eyes then turned to watch the pallbearers remove the casket from Reverend Duncan's hearse. With the casket in-hand, the Reverend took the lead through the gates; the bereaved solemnly followed.
The congregation slowly gathered around the cemetery's iron fence.
The Reverend led the pallbearers to the awaiting grave pit. Aside it, they sat the casket onto the lowering ropes as the family gathered around their departed's final resting-place.
With everyone in place, Reverend Duncan began his litany, "Sisters and brothers, our Lord brought forth his Son, our savior, into the world to redeem our sins and to welcome us into the Kingdom of Heaven. Praise Be. For today we send our most beloved Deacon Jones into His glorious Kingdom."
With that, Reverend Duncan raised his hands skyward saying, "Praise be to the Lord above." He paused in wait for the congregation's response. But all were silent.
He looked over toward the railings at his mute members. There were pointing and whispering about the absent gravestones.
He skewed his eyebrows, dropped his arms and looked about to see what was going on. By now the pallbearers and the family members were looking at the empty grounds.
Soon everyone was muttering about the missing stones. Some fainted, some stood frozen in shock, others began swearing at the supposed thief, a few turned in fright toward their cars and a few began kneeling to pray.
Reverend Duncan looked at the empty grave spaces, at his congregation, at the newly dug grave and boomed, "Quiet!"
The silence was immediate.
Then he said, "This is the handy work of the Devil's henchmen. They've soiled this holy place with their foul deed to frighten us. We will not be afraid. Join me my people in the 23rd Psalm."
And the members chanted, "Yea though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil..." At the prayer's end everyone felt stronger and assured that they had warded off the foulness of the evil deed.
The Reverend boomed, "Let us continue, lower the casket!"
When the casket had settled in its pit, Reverend Duncan leaned over to two of the deacons and whispered for them to retrieve the Sheriff.
The Sheriff arrived as the procession left in song.
Missouri State Police, Headquarters, 25 December
Christmas mornings usually had been quiet, a near despondent time for the skeleton crews taking their turn at manning the offices of the nation's police departments. But this particular Christmas found the Headquarter's phones ringing continually from 8 a.m. throughout the day. At noon the commander was called from his family dinner to co-ordinate the investigation of the stolen gravestones.
Reaction #3
"Hurry up Mary. We'll just have time to drop-off the flowers before mass starts," a baldhead pops around the doorway.
"Look John. Don't rush me. We'll have to stand anyway," she sits teasing her bangs in the oval mirror.
"Yeah, but remember last year. You farted around in the bathroom so long that we couldn't even get in the doors we were so late," his face in the mirror beside her, his comb runs over absent folics.
"I said don't rush me. Oh you men have no idea what it's like putting on this make-up. It has to be just so or I'll look like a Halloween mask. Look, let's drop the flowers off after mass. Then we'd be sure to get in. Maybe even a seat," she smiles and leans a kiss to his cheek.
"No way Mary. You know it was mom's tradition to place the flowers on the graves before mass. That was mom's way and it's now our way. Got it?!" slamming a fist onto the desktop and glaring contempt into the mirror.
"Fuck! You made me smear my eyeliner. Shut up and wait for me out in the car. And put the flowers in the trunk," she wipes a Kleenex over her eye.
John opens his mouth to retort, pauses and turns quickly away. As he passes through the kitchen he grabs his overcoat, hat and gloves from the rack, downs them and exits through the side garage door. Marches to the driver's door, unlocks it, opens and enters, sitting himself smoothly behind the steering wheel, pulling the door closed behind him.
Moments pass. John takes his hands from the wheel and quickly leaves the car. Marches back to the side door, entering the kitchen he glides to the refrigerator door, pulls it open and bends down to retrieve a large bouquet of yellow roses. Closes the door, spinning, hollering to Mary.
"Come on, will ya. Let's go, lipstick or no. Mary. Mary. Ya hear me?!" he cocks his head toward the hall.
Storming around the hallway with a furious scowl creasing her brow, Mary slips her stole around her shoulders and marches through the side door, ignoring John, who slips behind her, slamming the door hard behind him.
As Mary opens her door, John slides the key in the trunk lock, twists it open, raising the lid just enough to place the bouquet inside. He then pulls the key out while timing the lid closed to the shutting of Mary's door. He smiles through the back window to his glancing wife.
Around the back and into the door and down in the driver's seat John blurs. As Mary glares at him, he turns toward her, smiles and switches the ignition on with his right hand and flips on the garage door with his left. Then checking the mirror, he puts the shifter in reverse and guns the car down the drive and into a half turn on the street, split halting to shift to drive and flips the garage door closed.
He smiles at Mary and floors the gas. Squeals through the yield sign, up the next hill and down shifts at the top. Slams the brakes, stopping at the Danaphin Cemetery gates.
John slams the shifter into park, opening the door simultaneously, and pulls the keys from the ignition. Sliding out the door, he darts around to the trunk. Pops the trunk lid and reaches in pulling-out the bouquet with his left, timing the lid closed with his right. He spins around, marching to and through the open gate.
He heads up the path, first left, second right, then five steps, looks up to his right spying a new evergreen and marches over to it and places the bouquet at its base. As he rises up erect, he mutters, "Mom. I, I, miss you." He then spins around and marches back to the car.
Finally seated, he sits back against the headrest and sighs. Moments pass. He reaches to the ignition key as Mary reaches over putting her hand on his, she speaks, "John. Just where did you put those flowers?"
"What? By mother's grave of course," he flatly states while starring at the steering wheel.
"How could you?" she asks, slow turning from the side window to face him.
"Mary, what are you talking about?" he glances at her.
"John look around. Out there, in the cemetery," she has his chin in her left hand.
He looks up through the windshield, glances left then back to Mary, saying, "So?"
"John, what did you see?" pulling his chin toward her.
"What are you talking about, there's nothing out there but the gravestones and a few trees," he jerks free.
"No John. You're wrong. Can't you see it?" pointing forward.
John looks around again, "Mary there's nothing out there, are you going crazy or what?"
"John, there are no gravestones, anywhere!" she is slow looking out all the windows.
"What?!" And John looks at the empty cemetery very slowly. Opens the door and walks down the pathways, glancing from left to right at the empty stone places. At his mother's evergreen, he looks down at her missing marker. Reaches down, picks up the yellow roses and walks back. At the car, he gets in the back seat and places the roses on his lap.
He glances up to his wife, smiles and says, "Mary, you drive."
Mary looks back at John, who is now staring blankly at the flowers, and says, "Okay John. But I want to stop by the Sheriff's before we go to mass. You won't mind if we're a little late. Will you?"
"No Mary, I won't mind," he lays down on his left side.
Reaction #4
As the last rays flickered through the barren elm branches, the people of Salem began their annual wake walk to the valley cemetery. The people in the town streamed slowly onto the streets, gathering in number their parade to commemorate their departed. House members walked in-hand, opening their welcome to those they met. A silent vigil with bare glances among family members meeting along the many pathways through the fields and surrounding timbers.
As the sun dipped behind the edge, the inhabitants closed around the cemetery’s circumference until they had assembled hand-in-hand, full circle. At that moment their low hum emanated and rose to beyond sound.
Silence ensued.
Then in unison they broke into 'Silent Night'. When the song finished, they dropped their hands and walked toward their respective graves.
Muffled screams echoed across the cemetery as the missing stones were finally noticed. Silence smothered the bereaved's moans and everyone returned to their places on the circle.
Again they joined hands and at once a low hum sounded, rising to their highest pitch.
Again silence as they released each other's hands.
Quietly everyone turned away and walked to their homes, as the night became dark. At his office the constable called the State Patrol Headquarters.
Washington, D.C. Federal Bureau of Investigation, Headquarters, Unusual Crime Unit, 25 December, Sunday at 1 p.m.
On the sixth underground level sit the agency's top two investigators encased by technology's most advanced computers.
"Well Kerry, another Christmas passes today. I got you a small present, hope you don't mind. It just isn't Christmas unless I buy some presents."
"That's okay Hank. There's just us here. I got you a present, too."
Just then the Teletype banged its Missouri message. Hank jerked around, dropping his package on the desk and stared at the jangling machine. "Durn thing. Not even the sanctity of Yuletide quiets that gadget," Hank mutters.
"Well crime has no favorite days. Check it out. We'll get to the presents when it quiets."
Hank lumbers over to the printout and glances at the message. "It's from Missouri P.D. Somebody has stolen all the gravestones from the cemeteries. Over fifty cities so far. Now what kind of maniac would stoop so low as to defame the dead? What a weird world this has become."
"All the markers?" Kerry quires, "that would seem to put it under our jurisdiction. Send back acknowledgement and request a location listing of the cities robbed." Kerry points toward the printer.
F.B.I., HQ, U.C.U. 2 p.m.
"Thanks for the tie Hank, it fits."
"Ha ha. I thought it would."
"Yeah and it matches these slacks. Well, go ahead open yours."
Hank nods okay and reaches to pick his present from the desk when the printout begins to hammer. Hank jerks toward the sound and knocks his present to the floor. It lands with a clash, "Oh," he mutters retrieving it from the floor. He gently shakes it, hearing nothing, he smiles at Kerry.
Kerry shakes his head slowly, "You numb skull. Go get the Teletype."
Hank nods, placing his present back on the desk and ambles over to the jangling printout. There, he peers at its message. Then rips it free and ambles back to Kerry.
"Missouri again. Says here there were diversion fires at each city throughout the night. And the thefts weren't noticed until this morning," looking at Kerry, "pretty slick, huh."
Staring at the wall, Kerry comments, "Sacrilege. Robbing a cemetery on Christmas Eve. And they took all the gravestones. Very warped. A lot of heavy work. Hundreds of man-hours. Very coordinated. Very professional. But who?"
Hank puzzles, hands the printout sheet to Kerry and adds, "Grave robbing, not the mob's style. Sounds like black magic, voodoo stuff to me. Some kind of religious war?"
"Well maybe."
Kerry sits back a moment then snaps awake ordering, "Request the cemetery’s religious affiliations."
"Right," and Hank lumbers over to the Teletype, pounds out the orders, finishes and swivels around to quiz Kerry. "What would anybody possibly do with that many grave markers?"
"Yeah Hank. And they must have had hundreds of trucks and men. Surely someone would have noticed them. Have the police question the locals for sightings of trucks that night. Run through Central Main for the Weight Station records. And have the truck lines quiz their drivers."
"Okay Kerry," and he turns back to his keyboard, punching in the orders.
Kerry calls over, "Hank put Missouri on the screen and red-line the hit cities."
Hank nods and types in the order. Immediately a wall fuzzes into color and becomes a topographic map with one hundred flashing red dots.
"Look at that Kerry, just Central Missouri Ozarks."
"Yeah Hank. And the boundaries form a near perfect trapezoid. Huh?!"
The printout begins again and Hank looks down, reading its message, "Kerry, there are over twenty different church cemeteries mentioned."
"Yeah Hank, I thought so. It's not the churches; it's the markers they wanted. Well, we've got some thinking to do." And he sits back feet propped up, eyes changing into stare.
Hank stares up at the red flashes on the wall, nodding silently.
F.B.I., HQ, U.C.U. 5 p.m.
The printout keys jump alive.
Hank jerks his head down at the new message. Aloud he calls to his partner, "A follow-up. Preliminary investigation cites truck tracks at many of the cemeteries. No other clues yet."
"Okay, send back acknowledgement. Let's call it a day."
"Right."
F.B.I., HQ, U.C.U., Monday at 8 a.m.
"Morning Hank."
"Morning Kerry."
"Any new ideas on the missing markers?"
"One. Some rich nut figured to actually build a stairway to heaven."
"Right Hank."
"Just a joke Kerry."
"I know, but you may be right. Whatever the motive was, it probably is as strange as that. Maybe Missouri P.D. has some clues for us. Request an update."
"Right Kerry," and Hank pecks out his request. He then lumbers over to Kerry's desk. Sees his unopened present, he states, "Look at that, Kerry. We got so wrapped-up with the stones yesterday. I forgot to open my present."
"Yeah, so we did. Well numb skull, open it."
Again as Hank reaches for his Christmas present, the Teletype hammers its first message. And again Hank jerks toward its sound, knocking his present to the floor. "Damn!" he utters as he peers at the crash on the floor.
Kerry just nods his head slowly while Hank picks up the present, replacing it on the desk, ambles to the now quiet machine. He tears the message free, taking it to Kerry, his eyes scanning the words. He mumbles, "Nothing really. A few locals heard some trucks and a few saw some, but no names. Weight Station's reports reviewed only list national carriers those days. The truck lines interviewed their drivers, some remembered seeing small groups of unknown independents in Missouri."
Kerry takes the readout from Hank and reads it twice. Then stares off saying, "Turn on the wall screen."
Hank hits the keyboard and again the wall fuzzes into the Missouri map.
"Hank? Maybe those trucks didn't go very far with those markers."
"You think they're hiding out?"
"Well maybe they dropped their loads at some central place, hide-out a while, then staggered back unnoticed."
"Kerry, they could have taken them to a railroad line or a river barge."
"Yeah Hank, they could have at that. Red-line the rails and the barge docks on the map."
Hank types the order in and the map reveals the train routes and river docks.
Minutes pass and Kerry calls, "Hank, have the Forest Patrols scan those sites. Request them to specifically scan the center of that trapezoid. Send them the co-ordinates. Check with Central Main on the rail and barge line cargo schedules the 25th through next month."
Hank nods and turns, punching the order into the Teletype.
Immediately Central Main sends the rail and barge schedules onto the printout. Hank reads it over saying, "Nothing on the rails or barges fits the bill. Mostly lumber and gravel. You think they broke the stones down into gravel?"
"Hank, we're talking granite and marble, not diamonds."
"Well maybe the kook wants them for his driveway."
Shaking his head, Kerry smiles, "First a stairway and now a driveway. You numb skull."
F.B.I., HQ, U.C.U. 1 p.m.
"Man Kerry, that's what I call a lunch."
"Yeah those ladies really know how to cook. Especially that apple cobbler, ummm, ummm."
"Kerry, you want your coffee warmed up?"
"Yeah. Thanks Hank." Kerry sits back glancing at the printouts atop his desk. When his eyes settle on Hank's unopened Christmas present, he calls, "Hay Hank. You still haven't opened your present."
Slowly ambling two coffee cups to Kerry's desk, Hank mutters, "Damn Teletype keeps interrupting me." He puts both cups down and reaches warily toward his Christmas present. He stops his hands mid-air and glances at the Teletype just as it bangs out another message.
Hank jumps up, knocking his present over the edge to the floor. "Damn! I don't believe it did it again."
Kerry snickers quietly as Hank puts his present back on the desk and ambles over to the printout. Arriving as it silences, Hank tears off its message from Missouri Forest Patrol. Slowly walking and reading, he stops mid-step, hollering, "Kerry, they found something dead center in the red-lined boundaries. It appears to be a new stone castle. Located in a national forest. It has some mirrored device on the roof. No trucks or people sighted."
"I was right. Dead center huh? A real kook. And rich, too. Alright. Send in the State Patrol and have them followed by the National Guard with enough men to dismantle that place. Get those markers back to their rightful places. Have them tap into Central Main's obituaries."
"Right Kerry," and Hank smiles as his fingers send the orders.
F.B.I., HQ, U.C.U., 2 p.m.
The Teletype begins, jarring Hank awake. He peers over the council at the new message, "Kerry! No one at the castle."
"No. I thought not. Send back acknowledgement. Have the Guard clean it up."
"Right Kerry."
Kerry reaches over the printouts, picks up Hank's present and calls him over, "Hank, that case is done. Come open this present."
Hank nods and lumbers over to Kerry's desk, sits down taking the present from his partner. He tears the wrapping off and opens the lid. Reaching in, he pulls an all glass coffeepot out, placing it on the desk.
"That's really nice Kerry. Thanks."
"I knew we could use a new one. The way we go through coffee down here. I just can't believe it didn't break. You numb skull."
"Wow. It's really pretty. Want a cup of fresh coffee?" Hank peers through the bottom at Kerry.
F.B.I., HQ, U.C.U., 3 p.m.
Kerry and Hank are relaxing with a fresh cup when the quiet is broken by the Teletype.
Hank jumps up, spilling his coffee over the scattered printouts.
Kerry just shakes his head as Hank lumbers over to the printout.
Hank looks at the message, mouth drops open and his eyes pop wide. "Kerry. It says here, the National Guard could only dismantle a small wishing well. The stones on the castle are fused together somehow. They tried pry bars, sledge hammers, then hand grenades, and finally they bazookaed the castle. Nothing. So they pulled back and the army blasted the castle with their big stuff. No effects."
"Humph. Some kind of fusion welded those stones together, that mirrored device probably. Have them stop trying to blow it up. Have a NASA team investigate it. Get the names on the loose stones and have them returned through Central Main."
###
Deep within a forgotten cavern, two forms sat huddled, staring at the glowing hearth embers.
"My castle, Crog, is. Fused by their touch, it will stand through eternity. That monument marks my year's work. I am pleased. Lord Wraith will also be pleased."
Flashed lights lined purple smoke clashed through the cavern. Quiet became. The night returned and Lord Wraith boomed, "No Master Heratix. I am NOT pleased. Where is my wishing well?"
Heratix stared away, deep into the coals until they froze and turned into a picture of the stone castle with the National Guard dismantling and loading up the wishing well markers.
Lord Wraith boomed again, "There, Master Heratix, go my markers. I am NOT pleased!"
Crog turned his vision slowly away from the Lord and his shriveling Master. He stared into the coals and smiled, "No, Master Heratix, he is NOT pleased."
### the end. March-May 1983.
RETURN TO INDEX index
Bell Scene #1
New York City, New York, USA, 27 Dec 1984
Six a.m., the sun edges the horizon, Sunday services begin.
"Dong, dong, ding da dong, dong, dong," the altar boys tug-out the solemn hymn. It calls awake the town's parishioners, "It's Sunday, God's day, arise, attend and be reverent." Three boys, three ropes, three bells: a union, clad in white, their hands callused, their souls innocent, the boys play Sunday's song.
Today though, something's different. The bells seem different. The melody is right, but the tone is different. The ding should be a dung. They look to one another, questioning, accusing glances.
"Whose bell is wrong?"
"Not mine, yours."
"Not mine. Yours!"
It's not quite right, the sound, the tone. But they keep playing and looking at each other.
Now there's a new sound, a soft splat. They glance down. Splat, splat, splat all around their feet like new rain splashing a dry walk. Then a splat on an arm, a splat on a shoulder, on one's back, on their greased hair, yet they play on. The splatting continues.
The song finally done. Their hands sore. They look at the floor. They look at their gowns. They look at each other, eyes wide. Disbelief, "The splats are red." They look up to the bells.
The tower's shadowed walls slide their vision to the triangle of bells glistening with the new day's light. The boys focus their vision. Their thoughts race wondering of pranksters, of other possibilities.
A boy screams, he's seen it. He knows. He stammers, "It's, it's, it's, Father Kern!" A splat lands on his head; he touches it, his eyes roll. He whispers, "It's blood." He falls to the floor passed out.
The other two look at their friend. They look at each other. They look at their gowns. They look to the bells. The splattering continues.
One boy grabs the rope, "It's a, a, a trick!" He pulls it hard, "Dang," it thuds. A gush falls splash at his feet.
They both reach down and touch the splat. One boy puts it to his tongue, "It is blood." The other boy tastes it. "It is, it is, it is blood!" he squeals.
They look at each other's blooded gowns and scream and scream and scream. The blood splats their arms and heads and their feet, they scream. They tear off their gowns. The blood falls on their clothes, they scream. They tear off their shirts, their pants, their shoes, socks, underwear. They're naked. The blood splats their bodies, they scream.
"The blood, the blood, Father's blood!"
The other screams, "The blood, the blood, Christ's blood. The blood of Christ. We're saved. We're saved!"
Together, they begin chanting, "The blood, the blood of Christ. We're saved. We're saved. The blood, the blood of Christ!" Over and over they chant, "The blood, the blood, the blood of Christ."
The passed-out boy awakes. He sees his friends naked and in chant, eyes glazed, hands folded, heads bobbing. He looks around seeing the blood, their clothes askew. He shakes them, "Bob, John, Bob! John!"
They remain unmoved, in chant. He runs from the room, through the empty pews, up the altar and into the back offices to the assistant's office. He bursts through the door.
The assistant looks up, his eyes wide awonder of the red splashes. He asks, "What in the world happened to you?"
The boy sputters, "It's blood. Father Kern. The bells. Bob and John. Blood. The bells, the bells!" He's gesturing wildly, his eyes crazed. "The bells, the bells!" he screams again and again.
The assistant gets up hurriedly. The boy runs back to the steeple room with the assistant hollering at his heals, "David, this better not be some kind of joke!"
They find Bob and John naked and blood soaked, still chanting.
David points to the bells. The assistant looks up, his eyes focusing on the white, gowned form of Father Kern. His hand is splatted; he too tastes the red. He mutters, "Oh my God, it is blood. Oh sweet Jesus, what has happened. Bob, John, stop it. Stop it. Stop it!"
They chant on and on.
The assistant slaps them each across the face.
Bob and John chant on, "The blood, the blood. The blood of Christ."
The assistant lifts them up to their feet and pulls them by their hands to his office. He sets them each in a chair and covers them with clean gowns.
They sit mute, eyes crazed.
David pulls off his own gown and leaves. The assistant hollers at him to come back as he dials the police.
Bell Scene #2
New York City, New York, USA, 27 Dec 1984
Six a.m., the sun edges the horizon, Sunday services begin.
An old man hobbles down his walk, crossing the vacant street toward the steeple door. The morning birds chirp their new day greetings, but their songs fall on deafened ears. He sees the birds flutter about and smiles. He pauses, remembering their thrills and shrills.
"Enough folly you birds, I've work to do. The Sunday bells, you know," flapping his wrists at them. For twenty years this old man has been the church caretaker and not once has he been tardy.
Keys in hand, he opens the lock and enters the steeple. He grabs the bell rope with his right hand and looks at the watch on his left. Aloud he speaks, "5:55 a.m., five minutes to go. Right on time per usual." He beams proudly.
Above him, fifty feet of rope dangles from the golden bells. Those precious bells took the members six years to save for. So proud they were that first day those three gold bells rang. Today though, would cause a new feeling for those precious bells.
For today, high above the caretaker aside the bells the minister hangs by his feet. His voice muffled, but not silenced by a gag.
The sunrise streams through the stained windows. The minister sees the rope move. He knows it's near 6am, that the caretaker has arrived to ring Sunday's call to worship. He thinks, "Thank God, I'll be saved. I thought he'd never get here."
The minister begins his muffled screams, "Helmph, help-mph. Yhmup here, ahhhh, ahhhh, helmph!" He quiets, waiting to hear the startled response of the caretaker. "God, please don't let him have a heart attack when he sees me up here. He's such an old man," he prays to his god.
Silence. Then more silence. The minister cries his muffled plea again.
Still silence.
In muffled anguish he screams again and again, "Helmph!" sending thoughts to the caretaker, "Why are you tormenting me? Get me down you old fool! For the love of God, get me down!" He muffle screams again.
At 6 a.m. the caretaker takes both hands to the rope and begins his rhythmic tugs.
Smash! A gold bell bangs into the minister's head. He screams thought in pain, "Why is he doing this to me. Oh God, oh God, can't he hear me?"
Smash, dong ding, dong ding, smash smash, dong ding.
"Oh God, he's hard of hearing, I forgot," are his last thoughts.
Smash, dong ding, smash, dong ding, smash, dong ding. Smash! His skull finally cracks. His blood takes its long, long fall toward the caretaker.
Splat, splat, the first droplets land. His blood now streams through the crack. The minister dead.
Sunday's call finished, the caretaker leaves hold of the rope. "Twenty years on time," he mutters smiling.
"Sploush," blood falls down the front of his coat.
"What the hell?" he clamors, jumping back from the steady stream. He touches his shirt, sees his red fingers, sniffs a familiar odor and then tastes it to confirm his notion. "By God, it's blood," he shivers. He looks to the bells, "by God, there's something up there. I'd better get the minister and call the police." And off he hobbles toward the rectory.
Bell Scene #3
New York City, New York, USA, 27 Dec 1984
Six a.m., the sun edges the horizon, Sunday services begin.
"That old crone, what I wouldn't give to slug him a good one!"
"Hey. I hear that. Me, I'd tickle him until his pumper blew."
"I kinda like that. Maybe we should do both. Yea. I'll slug him, you tickle him."
Hammering her fist in her palm, Head Sister screams up to the heavens, "Oh Mother Mary, he is so deserving of God's worst wrath. And are we not your servants?"
Sister Faith, bobbing her folded hands from her forehead to her groin, hollers, "Yes. Slug his groin. His almighty groin. Then I'll tickle him. Yes, I'll tickle that old gossipmonger's groin till he bursts. Tickle, tickle, tickle. He'll cackle. Oh how he'll cackle. Cackle till he coughs. Coughs and wheezes and sneezes, then boom, dead!"
"Oh sweet Mary, we are your servants. God's wrath should fall on him," Head Sister waves her hands skyward.
"Yes, God's wrath," Sister Faith waves her raised hands.
"Yes, God's," Head Sister body sways from left to right.
"God's," Sister Faith body sways from right to left.
"God's!"
"Not ours."
"No, not ours."
"No, not ours, God's. God's. God's!" bumping hips, they lose their balance ending their heavenly appeal. "Oh damn!"
After straightening their dresses the two nuns march over the grass as W.W.II storm troopers. They slam the chapel doors and stomp across the hardwood to the steeple room. They throw open the door banging the knob into the wall and storm to the bell ropes. They each grab one and yank, and yank, and yank with every ounce of energy each has.
And with each yank they scream, "His groin!"
And with each yank the old priest's head smashes against the bells. His skull cracks wider and his blood falls all around the sisters' feet.
The sisters yank and scream, "His groin!" until they both collapse in exhaustion on the hard floor.
Panting, they laugh, "His groin, his groin."
Head Sister quiets and sits up. She reaches over to Sister Faith and pulls her upright. They laugh again. They smile.
Then Head Sister spots the ring of blood behind Sister Faith and follows it around with her eyes. Her face puzzles and she says, "What's that!" pointing to the ring around them.
Sister Faith's eyes widen and she reaches over to touch it. Her nose flares, recognizing the poignant odor. She looks at her wet fingers and extends her hand over to Head Sister's face.
Head Sister looks, eyes wide. She sniffs, frowning. She tastes, spits and gasps, "Blood."
They look around at the circle enclosing them. They look around the room. Finally their eyes reach up to the bells.
The priest's robe hangs down from his smashed skull, still dripping his blood.
"It's him," moans Sister Faith.
Head Sister slowly looks around at the circle of blood. She gasps softly, "Mother Mary's hole."
Sister Faith crosses herself saying, "God's wrath."
Head Sister looks at a bell rope, slowly raising her eyes to the dead priest. And then slowly lowers her eyes to Sister Faith's wide eyes. She then looks away to the ring of blood and then back to Sister Faith.
New York City, New York, USA, Third Precinct, 27 Dec 1984, 6:30 a.m.
The phone rings, "Brinngggg, brinngggg!" Sgt. Klop blinks his eyes open, stretches across his desk picking up the phone to his yawning mouth, "Yello. Third Precinct, Klop here." He sits back, half asleep. His eyes suddenly widen, his mouth gaps, "What was that?!" And his right hand scrabbles to put pen to pad. "St. Joseph's on Hale Avenue. Father Kern dead? Be right there, don't touch anything!"
Sgt. Klop jumps up knocking the typewriter off the corner of his desk, clashing it to the floor. He reaches down cursing as the Lieutenant storms from his office with a, "What the hell's going on out here?" Sgt. Klop puts the typewriter back atop loose papers, jerks toward the Lieutenant half shrieking, "Priest dead, the bell tower, St. Joseph's."
"What?" the Lieutenant jumps to his feet.
"Yea, that was the assistant. Father Kern's head smashed by the ringing of the morning bells. Weird." Sgt. Klop's face reddens and he trembles uncontrollably.
The Lieutenant's face puzzles, then he burst, "Get a hold of yourself Klop! Get over there!"
The phone rings, "Brinngggg," Burnheart grabs it with, "Third Precinct, Burnheart here." His mouth drops and his eyes widen as he hastily scribbles down an address.
The door slams behind Sgt. Klop as Burnheart looks up at the Lieutenant, "We got another one."
"What?" the Lieutenant flops down hard into his chair.
"Another one, yea. Minister at First Baptist on King Avenue. Head smashed in the bell tower like Kern." Burnheart reads from his notepad.
"Damn!" retorts the Lieutenant, "Well, get over there and take somebody's fingerprints."
Burnheart puts the address book in his pocket, grabs his coat off the back of his swivel chair and runs through the door at a trot.
The phone rings again, "Brinnggg, brinnggg, brinnggg, brinnggg."
"Well Lawson, get it!" the Lieutenant swings his feet up onto his desk.
Sgt. Lawson snaps up from his shock stupor, cautiously picks up the phone. "Third Precinct, Lawson here," he pauses, hand in mid-air, "You said St. Krist on 1st Street. St. Krist, right? Say is this some kind of sick joke? Who is this? Excuse me Head Sister, we'll be right over."
Lawson hangs up the phone and reaches to the phone book, pages through it, runs his finger down to mid-page and dials the number. "Head Sister? Sgt. Lawson here, just checking. Did you call an ambulance? That's alright, we'll bring one. Up in the bell tower, upside-down? Well I'll be damn," and he puts the phone back in its holder. Looking to the Lieutenant, "Another one. I don't believe it. Another one!" his head shaking slowly.
"Three dead. Damn? How many more, what the hell is going on? Must be some sort of satanic cult. Oh shit! I'd better call the captain. Get over there Lawson. I'll call the ambulances. Three of 'em. Damn!" the Lieutenant slumps his shoulders, sighs heavily then reaches for the phone.
Sgt. Lawson leaves the office slowly. Coming back for his forgotten hat, he shakes his head disbelieving at the Lieutenant.
Bell Scene #4
St. Louis, Missouri, USA, 27 Dec 1984
Six a.m., the sun edges the horizon, Sunday services begin.
The phone rings in the Reverend’s office, over and over. Finally the door opens, the clerk rushes in and overs to the phone. Out of breath, he picks it up, "Hello. Clerk Simons. Yes, yes Mrs. Glont. Yes your boy is scheduled for bell duty today. He's late. He should have been here. It's," looking at his wristwatch, "6 a.m. now. What, what? Your car won't start? Oh no. No, no it's alright. I'll call the alternate. Next time, please call sooner. And a good Sunday to you."
He slams down the receiver and pushes the loose papers around muttering, "Where's that schedule? Where's the Reverend? I can't ever make heads or tails of his desk. What a mess. Where's the Reverend? It's 6:03 a.m. already. The bells are late. Where's that schedule? Oh hell!" He grabs up a loose paper, "Alright, here it is. Let's see," his finger running down the schedule rapidly, checking his watch, "27 December, Abrams alternate, 555-2234."
He reaches over to the phone and dials quickly. "Three, four, five, come on, answer it Abrams. Seven, eight. Where are you Abrams, you're the alternate today. You're supposed to be home. Ten, eleven," he looks at the schedule, then at his watch, "thirteen, fourteen. Wake up. Wake up Abrams! Twenty. Oh hell. They're not home. And where is the Reverend!"
He glances out the window. His eyes widen and his face smiles, "At the tower, you fool clerk, at the bell tower waiting for Glont." He slams down the receiver.
He runs through the door leaving it ajar. Dashes down the corridor to exit the side door, then crosses the yard glancing about. At the steeple door he yanks it open sputtering, "Reverend, Reverend. Glont's car is broke and the..." He looks all around. No Reverend. He stops dead still, shakes his head in disgust and bewilderment, "Just where is that Reverend when you need him? Maybe in the church, over-viewing his sermon."
The clerk runs out the steeple door and trots along the side of the church glancing about. He rounds the front and double jumps the steps, up through the open doors and stops still halfway down the pew isle. He stares at the empty podium, glances at the early worshippers in prayer. He looks to his watch, "6:14 a.m. and no bells, no bell boy, no Reverend. Where is he?"
He pivots around and walks quickly back to the front door. Double jumps the steps and runs around the side. Back at the steeple door he peers inside. Sees no one, turns around and runs across the grass toward the side office door. He flies down the corridor and slows going through the Reverend's office door, then stops.
"Damn," he utters, "no reverend. Where is he!? Where's that schedule? I'll just call next week's boy." He rushes over to the desk, slips, crashing his hands across the top knocking all the papers to the floor.
He straightens up, grabbing the phone off the floor, then stares at his watch. "Damn, damn, double damn! Triple damn, shit! 6:20 a.m. Twenty minutes late already. Even if I could find the schedule, they wouldn't get here for 20-30 minutes. Oh shit. I'd better go ring the damn bell myself. Wait till I get a hold of that Abrams!"
He spins around and runs out of the office, down the corridor, across the yard to the steeple door, jumps inside, stops at the bell rope and begins pulling it wildly.
"Bang, bunk, bunk, bunk, bang," the bell thuds.
The clerk mutters aloud, "That doesn't sound right, I told the Reverend I should have learned how to play this bell!" Yank, yank, the clerk pulls down on the rope with all the energy he's got.
Splat splosh, the Reverend's blood lands on the clerk's forehead. He lets go of the rope, jumps back putting his hands to his face, wiping clean the warm mess. Flicks the wet from his fingers and blinks his eyes open noticing the odor of blood. Looks at his hands, tastes his fingers, spits and looks up at the bell.
His mouth drops open and he moans, "Reverend!" Blood splashes his upturned face. He throws up.
He stumbles through the door toward the offices retching. He ambles into the bathroom and washes his hands and his face. He takes off his coat and shirt and walks druggedly to the Reverend's office. There, he walks to the desk. Spies the phone on the floor, shrugs and sits down aside it. Shrugs again then dials the police.
Bell Scene #5
St. Louis, Missouri, USA, 27 Dec 1984
Six a.m., the sun edges the horizon, Sunday services begin. "When will he notice my love for him? Oh heart of mine, how I adore him. He makes life glow for me. I shake all over when he's near. How can he not notice? He must know within the depths of his soul. He must, he must. Oh what a silly girl I am. I can't help it. I do so love him."
Kelly has arrived early this Sunday and is muttering aloud as she walks from her car to the rectory. "The sky is so lovely at sunrise. The brightening of colors from the dark of night into the spectacular day, it grows as has my love for the Reverend this past fall."
She stops and gazes eastward, the sun just visible. Its light streaks through the empty elm branches that encircle the lawn. She sighs, "This morning those chimes will ring of my love with such a clarity that only the God Almighty himself could embrace."
Kelly smiles broadly and turns toward the rectory, with a bounce in her step she enters the door. "Reverend, Reverend Bob. Good morning good morning, it's me, Kelly."
She peers around the door and slowly enters, a large smile on her face. Inside, she closes the door, turns and frowns for the office is empty. "Oh, I do want him to join me in the steeple this morning. I must find him. I want to declare my love after the bells, while the Spirit is still amoung us. Maybe he's in the chapel, or in the steeple already."
Kelly's smile returns as she leaves through the chapel door. Inside, she begins to call out, but notices the solemn faces in early prayer. She walks quietly across the church, glancing about for her love. He is not there. She frowns and walks to the steeple door half-smiling in hopes the Reverend awaits her there.
She quickly turns the knob and briskly enters saying, "I knew you'd be waiting dear..."
She frowns for only the bell rope awaits her. She shakes her head lightly and walks to the rope. Grasping it with both hands she begins to hum softly, "Hmmm emmm, emmm, hmmm, humm hummm hmm, hmmm, hmmm, emmm, emmm, hmm hmm."
Her voice finally breaks into song, "My sweet lord, oh my sweet lord. I really want to see him; I really want to be with him. My sweet lord." Louder and louder she sings. As her voice peaks, she pulls down on the bell rope.
"Band, bang, bonk," the bell thuds.
She inhales deeply and booms another chilling trill, pulling the bell rope again and again.
"Bonk, bonk, balonk." The Reverend's skull splits. His blood drops down landing in the open mouth of Kelly, her head raised in song to her love. She gasps, swallows and coughs as more blood streams about her face.
It's blood, she knows from the taste. Somehow she knows it's her love's. She straightens and looks to the bell, spying the dangling body of her love. "My love, my love. You're dead. You're dead, my love, my Reverend."
She opens her mouth wide so his blood drips into her mouth. She swallows, moaning and holding her arms tight about herself. She opens her mouth to drink-in the remainder of her love's lifeblood.
Finally the blood stops flowing. Kelly looks to her Reverend one last time, "My love, now within me you'll always live." She blows him a kiss and turns away.
In the rectory Kelly washes her face and hands then and changes her clothes. She then dials the police.
Bell Scene #6
St. Louis, Missouri, USA, 27 Dec 1984
Six a.m., the sun edges over the horizon, Sunday services begin.
"I can't imagine for the life of me why I ever consented to visit this parish. I can't stand that little man. Calls himself a priest. He's no more suited to run that parish than the dogcatcher to be the mayor. Watch that truck! The curb! Don't hit the curb."
The black town-house rolls around a blind turn and the chauffeur slams on the brakes to avoid a squirrel. The Bishop lurches onto the floor.
The chauffeur calls over his shoulder, "Sorry Governor, a squirrel on the road. You all right?"
"You fool! You dumb fool. Damn near brake my neck over a puny squirrel." The Bishop sits back in his leather seat. Disgusted he pulls the side panel open and extracts a bottle of scotch. Spins off the top and slugs down a long pull. Spins the top back and wheezes, "That's it, a new chauffeur. There's no reason I have to subject myself to the dangers of driving in a fool's hands." To the chauffeur he bellows, "Aren't we there yet?"
"Just up another block, Governor."
"Would you cease calling me Governor, fool. I'm a Bishop. There it is, in all its grandeur. Ha! Pull up to the steps, Jones!" he quicks down another gulp.
Over viewing the parking places in front of the church, the chauffeur calls over his shoulder, "Sorry Gov… I mean your Bishop. There's no place open. We'll have to park here on the side."
Sitting forward, the Bishop peers through windshield, "There. There in front of the steps."
"Sorry Gov…, ah your Bishop, that's a wheel chair sign there," pointing ahead.
"You, you fool, I said park it there. That space is for dignitaries. Of which I, your employer, am one. Park it I said!" shaking his shoulder.
"Right Governor," shifting back into drive.
The townhouse rolls up to the curb, bumping it with the front tires, jerking the Bishop forward, then snapping him backward.
To himself the Bishop mutters, "That does it. A new chauffeur."
The engine off, key in his pocket, the chauffeur is out and holding the Bishop's door open.
"You fool. Stand there, just stand there. I need a drink after that roller coaster ride." He grabs his scotch, takes another belt, starts to put the bottle back and checks himself, putting it in his valise announcing, "All right, I'm ready."
Standing, he spies the cracks in the concrete, disgusted he mutters, "The fool can't even keep the parking in repair."
They walk up the steps toward the double doors. The Bishop, looking down critically mutters, "And just look at these steps, chips and flakes everywhere. Appalling, so very appalling." Pointing at the shrubs, "Even the greenery needs trimming. I just can't imagine what awaits us inside."
They walk up to the doors. They stop.
The Bishop takes his stare from the doors to the chauffeur, "Well, open it, open it!"
The chauffeur reaches forward and opens both doors. The Bishop steps forward; the chauffeur close behind. The doors slam closed.
The Bishop jumps, shakes his head reaching for his bottle, looks at the altar and checks himself. Aloud he mutters, "And just where is that old fool. It's nearly six. He was to greet us at the door. The old fool doesn't even have the common manners to greet me."
He glances around the church. He leans over to the chauffeur whispering, "It's nearly six and look how few are here. Disgraceful. Look at this rug, worn, worn, worn."
Shaking his head, he walks over to the mosaic windows and dusts his finger across a ledge, "Even, even the windows are dirty." He then marches up to the altar with the chauffeur at his heels.
At the altar he views the linen, "Filthy, filthy! And just where is that priest!" He glances around in wait of the priest. He snaps his watch to his eyes, "It's 6:10 a.m. and no bells yet either. I'll have him before the Council for this, I swear I will."
He turns around and spots the steeple door. He storms to it, yanks it open, "Winston, Winston!" he yells inside. The chauffeur follows him in, closing the door behind him.
The Bishop opens his valise and pulls out his scotch, slugging down the remaining alcohol. He throws the empty in the valise and looks at his watch, "6:15, it's 6:15a.m., no bells and no Winston!"
He spies the bell rope, hulks over to it and jumps up, grabbing the rope, pulling it down with all his weight.
"Bam!" The priest's skull cracks.
He bounces back up with the rope and pulls it down again.
"Bam!" The skull splits open spilling his blood, down, down onto the bouncing Bishop, splattering the chauffeur.
The chauffeur sniffs the wet on his fingers, tastes it and looks up to the bell. He grabs the rope from the Bishop, hollering, "Stop. Stop! It's blood, it's the priest!"
The Bishop gathers himself aright. Looking at his bloody hands and sleeves, looking up at the bell, grasping the chauffeur with his right, gesturing panic with his left, "It's Winston! It's, it's blood." The Bishop shrieks, "Ahhhh," his hands go to his heart and he falls backwards, knocking the chauffeur to the floor.
The chauffeur slowly pushes the Bishop off him. Checks his pulse, then folds his hands over his chest and closes his frozen eyes. He stands up. Looking down at the dead Bishop, then up to the dead priest, he crosses himself muttering, "Sweet Mary, mother of God, protect this poor sinner." He turns out the steeple door, seeing a worshipper he asks for the office phone. There, he dials the police.
St. Louis, Missouri, USA, Third Precinct, 27 December 1984, 6:34 a.m.
"Brinnnggg," the phone blares and Sgt. Deck jumps awake, grabs it and gabbles, "Mouurnning, Third Precinct, Sgt. Deck here."
Another phone rings, "Brinnnngggg, brinnnngggg, brinn-nnggg," Deck yells out, "Walker! Wake up, get line 2."
Sgt. Walker reaches over to his phone; eyes closed he knocks the phone off the cradle. It stops ringing. His head turns toward the receiver and he mumbles, "Sgt. Walker here." His eyes open and close as he mumbles, "Uh, huh?"
Another phone rings, "Brinnnggg, brinnngggg," and Sgt. Deck hollers, "Hawkins get that, line 3, Hawkins!"
Sgt. Hawkins stumbles from the bathroom, paper towel blotting his shaved face, "Line 3, got it. Sgt. Hawkins here, Third Precinct." He looks over at Walker and throws his wet towel at him. It hits Walker in the face.
Sgt. Deck shakes his head and then turns his attention to his phone. Soon all three policemen are scribbling furiously on note pads. Sgt. Deck finally responds, "We'll have an ambulance right there, don't touch anything." He hangs up and hears Sgt. Hawkins and Walker saying the same thing to the phone. They hang up and say, "Deck, got a murder here." They look at each other, then back to Deck, who says, "Oh yea, I got one here, too. Where's yours?"
Walker looks at his pad and says, "Priest at St. Celia on Black Lane."
Hawkins says, "Mine's the minister on Circle Avenue."
And Deck looks at his pad and says, "Minister on Green Tree."
They look at each other, then at their note pads, then back at each other.
Sgt. Deck scratches his head and looks at the Captain's dark office, saying, "I'd better get the Captain up for this."
Bell Scene #7
Los Angeles, California, USA, 27 Dec 1984
Six a.m., the sun edges the horizon, Sunday services begin.
The clear, quiet morning air is shattered by the scuffling of two boys outside the church bell tower.
"Leave me alone. Please get out of my way. It's almost six. I've got to ring the bells at six! Please get out of my way."
"You sissy. You little pansy. You puny punk. You can't even do push-ups. There's no way you can pull that bell rope." Tug pushes him into a tree.
"Yes I can. You're mad cause Father Bap gave me the job."
"Damn right I'm mad. That's a job for a man not a sissy kid like you." Tug pushes him into the tree again.
"You're older than me. But that doesn't make you a man."
"You little fairy. You aign't ringing that bell. Nope. No bells this morning and you lose the job. Then Bap will give it to me." Tug pushes him into the tree again.
"I've got to ring the bells. Please, please get out of my way Tug."
"Make me!" Tug's hands reach forward again.
As Tug lunges, Johnny feigns right spinning around and darts left past off balanced Tug. Johnny grabs the doorknob, twists, and pushes the door open.
Tug catches his balance, spins around and lunges at the fleeting gown of Johnny. He misses and lands half in the doorway. The door closes on Tug's outstretched hands and he screams in pain.
Johnny has raced over to the rope and has jumped high into the air, bringing the rope down to the floor with him.
The bell rings, "Blam!"
Johnny jumps as high as he can with the rope's momentum and comes back to the floor again.
Again the bell rings, "Blam!"
Tug is up off the floor shaking his crushed fingers as he runs toward the bouncing Johnny. He screams out, "You little bastard, I'll kill you!"
As Johnny jumps-up with the rope, Tug leaps in the air and grabs him around the shoulders. As they land, the bell smashes the priest's skull open. His blood gushes.
Johnny jumps up with the pull of the rope while Tug yanks at his shoulders screaming, "You little faggot, let go, let go! I'm gonna tear out your heart!"
As they hit the floor, the bell rings, "Blamd!" splitting Father Bap's skull in half. And his blood and brains fall toward the floor.
Tug wrenches Johnny loose from the rope. They crash to the floor as blood falls around them. Tug falls on top of Johnny and begins hitting him about the face and chest.
"Splat sploosh!" Father Bap's blooded brains land on Tug's head and shoulders, knocking him forward. He rolls off Johnny into a sitting position. He rubs the back of his neck and feels the wetness. Looks at his red hand and at the bloody brains in front of him. He smells his hands, frowning. As he looks upward to the bells, he tastes his fingers. He sees the blood falling from Father Bap's head, he realizes what has happened and screams silently. His eyes roll back into his head and he faints slowly backwards.
Johnny awakens from his daze. His face hurts, his chest hurts. He rolls over and slowly gets to his feet. He shakes his head and blinks his eyes. He sees Tug unconscious and the blood on the floor.
He mutters softly, "Oh my, I must have blooded his nose. I'd better get Father Bap and an ambulance." He hurries from the bell tower toward the office to call the police.
Bell Scene #8
Los Angeles, California, USA, 27 December 1984
Six a.m., the sun edges over the horizon, Sunday services begin.
A well groomed, handsome young lad struts coolly aside his longhaired, wide-eyed, beautifully innocent girl friend. They cross the dew toward the chapel bell tower. Even the birds stop their morning praises when the young man's resonant voice booms.
"No need to worry, my pet. I assure you, the Reverend holds me in his highest esteem." Robert gestures dramatically.
"But darling, isn't ringing the call to service chimes a trusted and sacred duty?" her eyes widening.
"Yes, yes my pet. As trusted and honored a duty as the giving of the sacraments. It is a duty given only to the most honorable members." Robert thumbs his suspenders.
"My darling, I had no idea you were held in such esteem," flickering her eyebrows at him.
"I don't mean to seem the braggart, but there wasn't any question amoung the elders as to who would fill the position after Jeffery moved last month." Roberts snaps his suspenders.
"My darling, are you sure it's all right for me to be in there with you? I wouldn't want to be the cause of trouble for you." She leans close and their shoulders rub.
"No problem my pet. The Reverend gave no instructions forbidding anyone's company. He mainly stressed promptness. We must hasten, it's nearly six." Robert looks at the sun.
The young lady gazes adoringly at her white gowned, bell ringer and sighs. As he takes the tower door key from his pocket, she glances upward to the peak of the tower. Her gaze becomes wonderment. Robert, eyeing her distraction, fumbles the key against the lock. When her focus returns on him, the key slides in and opens the door. They quietly enter the bell tower and carefully close the door behind them.
They stand hand-in-hand and reverently stare at the bell ropes. The young lad takes a deep breath, expanding his chest, holding his head erect. The girl glances at him and sighs again. He then proudly walks to the rope and puts both hands on it. His eyes fixed in a gazy stare on the rope. He glances at his watch and when the second hand marks 6 a.m. he pulls the rope hard to the floor.
The bell rings, "Blat."
The lad hears nothing, his gaze on the rope, his thoughts on his performance. His body is one cool motion with the rope.
The girl frowns at the odd sound of the bell. She glances upward and spies the upside-down body of the Reverend. She gasps, "Robert."
Robert moves upward with the return of the rope, his thoughts on the perfect execution of his duty. He thinks, "How impressed Gloria is." He continues his pull of the rope.
The bell rings, "Blant." The Reverend's head splits.
Gloria gasps again, "Robert, Robert. Oh no Robert."
The lad's face beams. He shivers with admired emotion and moves smoothly upward and downward with the rope.
The bell rings, "Blangt." The Reverend's skull cracks open and his blood gushes downward.
Gloria sputters, "Robert, Robert. Wait, wait. You must stop. Oh no, I can't stand it." Her hands hide her face.
Robert's chest swells, he thinks, "Boy what a turn-on, she's mine now for sure." He reaches upward with the rope and pulls it down extra hard.
The bell rings, "Blangtt." The Reverend's skull splits in half. His blood and brains fall, landing on the white gowned bell ringer.
Robert feels nothing, entranced by his own performance. Finished, he lets go of the rope and drops his hands to his side. He spins around and walks quickly over to Gloria as blood and brains fall around the rope, splatting the floor. He stops, mutters as he turns around, "What was that?"
"Robert, oh Robert. I tried to tell you. It's, it's. Up, up there. The bell, the Reverend," hiding her eyes with her left, pointing up with her right.
Robert looks up to the bell. He hears the blood splatter on the floor. He mutters, "What in the world is he doing up there. The old fool. He could get himself killed."
Gloria shakes her head, "Let's go call the police."
Bell Scene #9
Los Angeles, California, USA, 27 December 1984
Six a.m., the sun edges over the horizon, Sunday services begin.
The rain falls in waves on the idling car waiting in the church lot. Huddled near the heater an impatient father looks at his watch, then at his son, then at the rain. He curses at the rain, at his son, at himself.
"Damnable clouds, five minutes more and we'd been inside. Damn your laziness, why can't you just get up when the alarm goes off. Damn it, I knew this job was too much for you. Why did I ever let you talk me into doing this."
"Awh dad, it's just rain. And I haven't been late, not once."
"Yea, not late once. Cause I get you up every Sunday, cause I dress you, cause I drive you here to be on time."
"Awh dad. I wanted to ride my bike, remember, you said I'd be late."
"Yea, and you would have been late. You got to be on time for work. You got this job and you got to do it right or not at all. And I aign't goin' let you disgrace the name of Taylor. You're goin' to learn to be on time. And I'm goin' teach you, by hook or crook."
"Awh dad."
"Shut up! It's almost 6 a.m. put your hat on and close that door behind you. Let's go."
Out into the torrent, father and son run toward the bell tower, rain pounding off their coats and hats. Once inside, they shake the rain off and then throw their rain gear in a corner.
"Well boy, get to it, it's right on 6 a.m. Hurry up. And pull that bell down hard, it's got to ring louder than the rain today!"
"Awh dad. I can do it." The boy hurries over to the bell rope and grabs it. His lithe body strains to yank the rope hard to the floor.
The bell rings, "Blangth."
Mr. Taylor hollers at his son, "Boy, that aign't no school bell, pull it harder!"
The boy cries over his shoulder, "Awh dad, I yanked it, I really yanked it."
Mr. Taylor curses, "Damn it. I said harder, harder!"
The boy reaches up and pulls down the rope with all his effort.
The bell rings again, "Blangth."
"Boy, that aign't no way to ring a church bell, it sounds dead. I knew you were too little for this job. Stand aside. I'll show you how to ring a bell."
"Awh dad."
"Shut up." Mr. Taylor walks over to the rope and grabs it high and pulls it down with all his strength. The bell rings, "Blanggt." And the minister's skull cracks.
Mr. Taylor shakes his head. He reaches high again and grunts as he yanks down the rope.
The bell rings, "Blanggt." The minister's skull splits wide and his blood falls, landing on a confused Mr. Taylor.
"Damnable rain," he curses while wiping his brow dry. He reaches up and pulls the rope even harder, determined to get a true ring from the church bell.
"Blanggt." More blood falls floor bound, again landing on Mr. Taylor.
"Damn rain, damn bell," he glances upward and spies the dead minister, blood dripping from his skull. "Awwwwwwwwww!" he screams. And runs out the door, past his wide-eyed son and into the rain.
His son looks at the puddle of blood on the floor, then up at the dead minister and mutters, "That's why I couldn't ring the bell dad." He looks out the door and sees his dad standing with his arms out-stretched to the sky and calls, "Dad, dad. I can too ring the bell right. It's the minister's fault. It's the minister's fault. I can ring it right. I can." He runs to his dad and tugs his coat.
Mr. Taylor drops his arms and turns around. Looks down at his son, then at the bell tower, then to the sky. He reaches to his son and hugs him, saying, "Yes son. I know, I know. You can ring the bell right. You can. Let's get out of this rain and get some help for the minister."
And they walk arm-in-arm toward the rectory to call the police.
Los Angeles, California, USA, Third Precinct, 27 Dec 1984, 6:37 a.m.
"Sarge, I'll bet you the next call is a smashed fender."
"Somebody rushing to church, no doubt."
"Yea, ha ha, late for mass."
"Ah, yous guys are way off, it'll be a robbery. An armed robbery."
"You're crazy Mickel, this is Sunday, nothin's open at dawn."
"Sunday huh, you sure? Oh yea, Sunday, a, a, a church robbery."
"What? What was that Mickel? You think one of the parishioners goin' run off with the passed hat? Ha, ha."
"Yea, Mickel. They'll grab the money and machine gun the priest, then smash into a car during the get-away. Boy are you crazy Mickel."
"In this city, anything's possible. Anything. So's yous guys put up or shut up."
"Well Mickel, here's a fiver says you're crazy. Ha ha, machine-gun a priest for the passed hat, ha ha. Sarge you're a witness. Come on Mickel, where's yous fin? Ha ha." As Detective Blank waves his five in the air, the phone rings cutting through the laughter, "Brinnngg."
Sgt. Connelly quickly picks up the phone and begins scribbling on a torn note-pad sheet. He puts the phone down and peers at Mickel. "It's a homicide Mickel, yhou..." The phone rings again, cutting his sentence short. He quickly picks up the phone and turns the torn sheet over. Eyes wide, he scribbles furiously saying, "We'll be right there."
Looking at Mickel again he begins, "Mickel. Another homici..." the phone rings, cutting him short. He jerks the phone to his ear, softly saying, "Connelly, Third Precinct." He shuffles the loose paper on his desk, settling on an envelope he scribbles again asking, "Repeat that please."
Sgt. Connelly slowly cradles the phone. Picks up his notes and solemnly assigns, "Mickel; 1st Presbyterian on 2nd Street, a homicide. Blank; the Orthodox Christian on 2nd Street, a homicide. Detective Hastings; St. Mary's on 3rd Street, another homicide."
Detective Mickel looks at Sgt. Connelly and asks, "Whose dead Sarge?"
Sergeant Connelly shakes his head, "Two ministers and a priest."
Mickel smiles at Blank, holds out his hand and, "Ha, ha Blank, that's $5 yous owe me."
Washington, D.C., USA Federal Bureau of Investigations, HQ, Unusual Crime Unit,
6:30 a.m., 27 Dec 1984
On the sixth underground level sit the agency's top two investigators encased by technology's most advanced computers.
"Hank, there goes the homicide unit. The sun's barely up and it's Sunday, can you believe it. Better check it out."
Hank puts down his coffee cup and lumbers over to the printout terminal. He glances at it and calls over to his partner, "New York City, Third Precinct. Where else on a Sunday morning?" His eyes open wider as he reads, "Hay. Check this. Two priests and a Baptist minister dead."
"What?" calls Kerry, "How?"
"Says here all three had their heads busted open by the ringing of the church bells. They were tied upside-down and the bell ringers didn't know it until the blood landed on them. Wow! What do you think of that?"
"What do they think?" calls Kerry.
"Who?"
"The Third Precinct cops, you numb skull," Kerry empathizes. "What time did it happen?"
"Approximately 6 a.m. on all of them. Wow! Well that's New York for you."
"Yea, the Big Apple, where anything's possible. Well send them back an acknowledgement." Kerry picks up the Sunday funny papers as Hank fingers the keyboard.
F.B.I., HQ., U.C.U., 8:36 a.m.
"Well there goes the homicide unit again. Check it out Hank, probably a follow up on those New York priests."
Hank puts his coffee cup down and shakes his arms and calls back to Kerry, "Two priests and a Baptist."
"Shut up and give me the read-out."
Hank lumbers over to the printout and drops his mouth open, "You won't believe this Kerry. Three more."
"What?" and Kerry sits up erect, eyes wide, "Where? New York again?" dropping the funny papers.
"No. St. Louis, Third Precinct. Two more priests and a Methodist this time."
"Damn! When? What M.O.?" Kerry starts to get up, but shakes his head and sits back down.
"Yea Kerry, same M.O., heads busted by the bells, unsuspecting bell ringers again. And get this, done at approximately 6a.m. St. Louis time. Well what do you think of that?"
"Hank, it's damn freaky. What does St. Louis think?" Kerry asks.
"Must be too early in the morning there. Nothing else on this report. Send acknowledgement?"
"Huh? No, not yet. Let's wait a while yet and see what develops." Kerry picks up the Sunday funny papers again.
"Okay Kerry, you're section boss." Hank tears off the printout sheet and reads it as he lumbers toward his table. Bumping into it, he knocks his coffee cup to the floor.
Kerry glances up, shaking his head, muttering softly, "You numb skull." And then leans back, his eyes lost in thought on the cartoon characters.
F.B.I. HQ., U.C.U., 10:20 a.m.
The homicide unit clanks again and Hank jumps, knocking his table over, spilling papers and coffee about the floor. Even Kerry breaks from his stare with a start and begins to get up. He sits back and nervously queries, "Where this time Hank?"
Hank looks up from the print-out, stone-faced, white as paper, "Los Angeles, Third Precinct again. Same M.O. Two ministers and a priest. About 6 a.m., their time too. Innocent bell ringers. Man Kerry, something is going on."
"Hank bring me those print-out sheets. Send them an acknowledgement, nothing else. We got some thinking to do."
Hank nods and collects the three reports taking them to Kerry.
Kerry looks at each printout, scribbles down a few notes, sits back in stare thought while Hank cleans up his paper mess. Finally Kerry looks over to Hank, "Well let's review what we've got so far. Three major cities, three religious leaders, each have the same M.O., same time, and all in the Third Precincts. Too many threes. Obviously a conspiracy. But what kind?"
"Religious leaders. God and the Devil. Those devil worshippers is my bet." Hank grins his best guess.
"Looks like it off hand," Kerry scratches his chin and leans back in thought.
Finally he calls to Hank, "Hank. Tell each precinct I want an immediate autopsy report. Top priority, play it up big. Just don't mention the other cities to them. Not yet. I want to see what their individual investigations find. Oh yea, have them check their travel schedules for the past year. And find out how big those churches were. You know, money."
Hank nods and lumbers over to the terminal and begins typing the orders to each city.
F.B.I. HQ., U.C.U., 1:41 p.m.
The homicide unit clanks.
Hank jumps up, nearly losing his coffee to the floor again. He half trots to the unit. He peers down at the print-out, calling over his shoulder, "New York, Third Precinct; no leads. Three largest, richest churches. No travel on any of them. Here's something. Two autopsies clean; death from crushed skulls. Cocaine found in the priest. How about that?"
"Yea, how about that Hank, a junkie priest." Kerry drops the funny papers.
"Well, I can kinda see it, you know, no sexl. Gotta have some kind of release, ha ha."
Kerry shakes his head muttering, "You numb skull."
The printout quiets, then begins again. Hank jerks around eyeing its new message, "It's L.A., Third Precinct. Richest churches, no travel outside the city. No leads yet. Smashed skulls. And get this, cocaine found in one. Guess which, ha ha."
"A priest?"
"Yea, how'd you know?"
"No sex, remember. You numb skull." Kerry grins wide.
Hank puts his hands in his pockets and hangs his head, shuffling his feet.
Kerry leans back, smiling at him.
The printout begins again and Kerry manages up from his chair and slowly ambles to it saying, "I want to read this one myself. It's St. Louis, isn't it?"
"Yea, Kerry, Third Precinct."
Kerry looks at the printout, reading aloud, "Three richest churches, no travel outside the city. Skulls smashed, cause of death. No leads yet. Just what I figured. Identical except for no cocaine."
"Yea Kerry. I think you got something there, too coincidental. Satanist you think?"
"Maybe Hank. Maybe something else too."
"That cocaine?"
"Yea. Two of the richest priests in two cities doing coke."
"Yea Kerry, but they got lots of money and remember no sex can drive a man to strange ways."
"You mean like you and your sea shells? Ha ha, you numb skull." Kerry cups his hand to his ear, listening to the distant sea.
"Collecting sea shells aign't strange and you know it Kerry. What is strange is nine church leaders all murdered by their own bells at dawn. That rings of weirdoes to me. Black magic."
"You might be right Hank. Send an order to investigate their dealings with the occultists."
"You still want to keep 'em in the dark about the other deaths?"
"Yea, let's not bias or panic their investigations. Just have them keep us updated."
"Right." And Hank turns to type the instructions on the Teletype as Kerry ambles back to his desk in thought.
F.B.I. HQ., U.C.U., 2:27 p.m.
Kerry leans forward, elbows resting on the funny papers, his eyes popping open, muttering, "Coke. Coke. Where would a priest get coke? From one of his confessing flock, where else. So easy too. If he can get it, he could give it too. In fact, what a perfect cover, the confessional. Those gigantic gowns. No one suspects priests of anything. What a cover." He leans back again, scratching his chin, muttering, "Huh. And no travel, huh?"
Hank starts to get up from his terminal and Kerry calls over to him, "Wait there Hank, I want all their names and ID statistics." Hank nods and types his request to each city. Upon finishing, the printout types the dead's names and statistics.
Kerry quicks over to the printout terminal and reads the new report. "Okay, now tie in to the Airline Center. Have it run a comparison for all airways over the last year, just the names and stats, no titles. Just the three cities."
"Got it." Hank types-out his instructions on the terminal as Kerry takes the report back to his desk.
Within five minutes the printout clanks its response.
Hank leans forward reading, "We got a positive from T.W.A. On 11 July 82 from L.A. to New York to Paris, France and back on 12 July. And on 11 July from St. Louis to New York to Paris and back on 12 July. Also on 11 July from New York to Paris and back on the 12th. We've got three names and their stats match our dead priests, one per city."
"Well Hank, now we're getting somewhere. No travel huh! Cocaine huh! Begins to look like a coke ring cover-up, doesn't it." Kerry pins notes on the edge of the funnies. "Hank, check T.W.A. seating on those flights, both ways."
Hank's fingers fly over the terminal keys. Soon the printout clanks back. "Check this Kerry. All three sat alone in first class, both flights."
"Well Hank that seems a little beyond coincidence to me. Find out who did the seating that day and get a rundown on them." he draws lines from edge to edge.
"Okay. Kerry what about Paris?"
"Yea, Paris. Contact Customs there and Interpol. Have the C.I.A. check the priests' hierarchy in Paris. Inform them all of a possible coke connection. Put Top Priority on it. I want answers today! And find out the street rap on coke in each city." Kerry scribbles more notes on the funnies.
"Got it Kerry." Hank bangs his orders on the terminal, before he's finished the printout begins again. "Kerry here comes the print-out from T.W.A. Central. A Lance Stoggs, trainee, was on seating duty 11 July 82. He quit one month later. I'll see what Central Main has on him." Hank pecks his query.
The printout jangles its answer.
"Kerry, nothing on Stoggs, no social security number or driver's license or police record, nothing."
"That's the mob's way, lots of dead ends. Ha ha." Kerry flips to a different page of the funny paper.
The printout jangles again.
Hank leans over, reading loudly, "New York. Nothing from the church personnel, no enemies, revered community leaders. Street scene of tightening coke supplies and prices up. Here's L.A., no leads, they suspect weirdoes. Their recent church sermons were coming down heavy on the Satanist gangs. Coke tightening, possible dealer's war. And here's St. Louis, it reads the same. No real leads. But the coke is pure and cheap. No major busts in six months, how about that Kerry?"
"Hank, it's drugs, like I thought, except for the L.A. occult sermons," looking over the top of the paper.
"Yea Kerry nothing else there. New York and L.A. are coke tight, where St. Louis is rolling in it. I think you're right. A regular coke city in them churches."
Kerry nods and leans back, eyes the funnies in thought.
F.B.I., HQ., U.C.U., 3:21 p.m.
The printout jangles a new message. Hank peers at it, "It's Interpol. They were heavy with all of Europe's known drug leaders visiting Paris last summer. They want to know what's up at our end."
"Hank, tell them we've got a possible tie-in over here, still investigating. It's starting to shape up Hank, I can almost picture it." Kerry rolls his hands together and bobs his head up and down, smiling.
Hank looks at him and grins, "Yea Kerry, you're cooking, you're really into this one." His praises are cut short by the jangle of the printout. "It's C.I.A., Paris."
"Well, what have they got?" leaning anxiously forward.
"Just a minute," Hank reads over the lines, pauses and reads them again. When the printout stops he tears off the sheet and reads it to Kerry.
"They busted-in on a Cardinal and put the pressure on. Told him they knew of the priests' secret July visit. He wouldn't talk. They told him of their murders. He wouldn't talk citing private affairs of Church. Then they told him of the other dead ministers and that that put it beyond the Church and into the C.I.A.'s hands. That broke him.
The Cardinal told them of the resurgence in occult practices through out the world and especially here in the U.S.A. Seems that in the Satanic Revisionists Movement there's a radical group called the Demons. They are seeking recognition and power through violence. Drugs, extortion and murder their specialties.
Our three visiting priests were city council heads, combating the Satanist. The Cardinal said only the weakest wills would succumb to the Satanist and that God would settle the matter in his own mysterious way. That this matter was beyond mere Man's understanding. And the C.I.A. should be in church praying.
How about that Cardinal, telling the C.I.A. to go pray. Ha ha."
"No mention of coke, huh?" puzzles Kerry.
"No Kerry, just a murderous group called the Demons. The priests were council heads, that about blows your drug ring theory."
"Not yet, it doesn't. Not yet. Weak wills he said. Junkie priests. And the Demons are into drugs and murder. Hank, see what Central Main has on the Demons." Kerry sits back staring as Hank punches into the main computer banks.
Immediately the printout begins. Hank looks over at it and laughs, "Ha, ha, ha. Get this; Central Main says the Demons are a new-wave rock and roll band based in Nashville, Tennessee, currently on an U.S. tour. How about that Kerry, a rock and roll band."
"Hank. That's it," half rising from his chair.
"What?"
"Yea. Murder, drugs and a traveling band. Dawn murders. Different cities. Just enough time for a hit squad to jet in, set 'em up and jet out. And for good measure they knocked off some extras so we'll think it's an occult war. Pretty clever cover Hank. Have Nashville round them up."
Hank beams as he punches the orders for the Nashville, F.B.I.
F.B.I., HQ, U.C.U., 4:56 p.m.
The printout jangles its message from Nashville. Hank lumbers over to it. Tearing off the sheet, he reads it. Then takes it to Kerry. Hands it to him silently and sits down with his coffee cup.
Kerry reads the report aloud, "The band known as the Demons were located at a farm house, five miles from Nashville. The house was surrounded and they were ordered to surrender. Gunfire ensued. A thick black smoke billowed from the doors and windows, completely blackening the area for five minutes. Suddenly the house exploded, leaving a twenty-foot crater, killing five agents. No band survivors have been found."
"Well Kerry, another dead end."
"Yea, the mob's way."
"Right."
"Let's call it a day."
Paris, France, 27 December 1984, 11:30 p.m.
"Gentlemen, the Cardinal will be here momentarily. Please make yourselves comfortable."
Three youthful business tycoons smile thankfully at the Cardinal's secretary, then move briskly toward the chairs surrounding his oval desk. They seat themselves, cross their legs and stare quietly at the Cardinal's empty chair.
The secretary adds, "There is some fine brandy in the bar if any of you are interested." Her comment falls on unmoving ears. She begins to speak, looks at each reservedly, closes her mouth and the office door behind her.
Within minutes the door opens and the Cardinal enters. He silently closes the door and walks to his desk. Pulls back his chair, seats himself gently, then slides the chair forward to the middle of the desk. He opens a side drawer, taking a cash box from it then places it on the desk. He looks at each saying, "Well my little Demons, any problems I should know about?"
The center man speaks first with, "Only a minor problem." The man on the left continues with, "The Feds cornered us at the farm." The man on the right follows with, "We took some potshots, hit the smoke bomb and escaped through the mine tunnel, blowing up the house as planned." The center man adds, "On the way to the airport we had to fix a flat." The man on the right adds, "We fired-up the jet and were in the air before the dust settled." The man on the left finishes the narration with, "We caught a fast tail wind and here we are. Now the money."
The Cardinal smiles saying, "Sorry about your farmhouse, but that was at your expense. We agreed on the fee. At a hundred thousand a hit, three priests come to $300,000. I think the other priests will stay in line now. And if they don't, I guess you boys and I will have a little more business to transact."
The center man grins with, "Our pleasure your Eminence." The man on the right continues with, "Our pleasure." The man on the left laughs, "He he he."
The Cardinal opens the cash box, counts three hundred thousand dollars and hands the money to the center man saying, "That was a nice touch knocking off those other ministers. That ought to confuse the police for quite awhile, but that was also at your expense."
The businessmen look questioningly at the Cardinal, then to one another. The man on the left speaks with, "What other ministers?" The man in the center quickly adds, "Kern in New York, Winston in St. Louis and Bap in L.A." The man on the right adds, "Three cities, three dawn hits." The man on the left continues with, "That was the deal, that's what we did." The center man finishes with, "There was barely time to make even one hit."
The Cardinal stares back at each silently, finally he says, "Look. I don't care how many holy men you knock off. The C.I.A. was here this afternoon checking on my three dead priests and six other mysterious dawn bell murders. I don't know how you did it or care. I gave them the Satanist Resurgence Demon story. They bought it."
All three men look at each other queerly, then to the Cardinal they speak, "Three. We hit only three."
The center man smiles, "Check with U.P.I. news."
The Cardinal calls his secretary on the intercom and has her verify the ministers' deaths. With the switch off he looks to the center man asking, "Who else knew of this plan?"
The man on the left comments, "We three and you."
The Cardinal adds, "I told no one. The C.I.A. must be trying to trip me up."
His intercom buzzes and his secretary says, "Your Eminence, there were nine murders, three in each city. I double checked with the Bishops in each city."
The Cardinal switches off the intercom and stares again at each man, finally he laughs, "Ha, ha, ha, ha. Trying to spook me, huh, that's a good joke. Ha, ha."
The center man frowns at his partners, then at the Cardinal saying, "We don't know what's going on here." The man on the left adds, "Three hits was the deal. Three is all we did."
The man on the right finishes with, "There was no time for extra hits. We just got out of the bell tower before the St. Louis Bishop opened the door."
The Cardinal lends forward peering into the center man's eyes asking, "Well if you didn't kill them, who did?"
The three businessmen get up from their chairs, turn and walk to the door. They stop, turn and address the Cardinal with, "Yes Who did!"
### the end. December 1983 - January 1984.
RETURN TO INDEX index
Censored.
The opening scene overviews a silver-fringed balding male whose back is to the camera. He turns the volume up on one of the dozen speakers lining a long workbench. An open note pad sits before each and pencils lay ready. A soft drone of static back grounds the conversation on the speaker before him. His ear cocked, his hand scribbles madly:
Scene #1, Sunday, 11 July 1986
"Dawson! Turn that damn TV down!"
"Fool! The tube's off, that's the neighbors at it again."
"Damn noisemakers. Is fightin' all they can do! I'm tired of their noise! Find some cartoons on the tube and blast it up!"
Dawson reaches over, ons the tube and ups the volume. Then turns back to his sacks of multi-colored pills, carefully opening and pouring half of the powder from a red capsule to a clear one, the rest into a black one. From a large bowl of white powder he spoon fills the clear capsule and fills the black capsule with a yellowish powder. He then carefully seals the new mixtures, throwing each into its own gallon jug.
He leans back and hollers over his shoulder to his partner, "Duke the pills are near ready. When those kids coming by?"
Duke appears in the open doorway, "Not till ten. Calm down."
"Well I just don't like the looks of this new bunch you herded in."
"Shut up already! They laid out half the cash, 'member? Just have them pills ready. And the count better be right this time!" He spins away.
In the hall he pauses as the television silent-statics for an instant, "Eight p.m.," then hums the cartoons again.
The phone rings. Dawson downs the cartoon's volume and jerks the receiver to his right ear, "Yea. What?" He sits nodding his head, glances at the tube, then toward the kitchen hollering, "Duke, the color tube is fixed, got to pick it up at 8pm," then jerks the receiver back to the hook.
Duke appears in the open doorway, glaring at the black & white, "Well good. That damn loaner been stuck on the cartoon channel for a week. Damn thing!" He jets across the room, yanks the plug and bends down lifting one side of the dead television. He looks to Dawson, "Well?!"
Dawson stares back, "What about these pills?"
"Lock the door. We'll be there and back long before the kids show at ten. Get over here and help. This thing's heavy!"
Dawson jumps up and long steps to the waiting end, reaches and lifts to catch Duke's movement. Through the room, smashing the porch door open, down the concrete steps, they lug the loaner to the back of their Dodge pickup.
Duke opens the driver's door, sliding across to the passenger window. He takes the keys from the glove box and tosses them to Dawson's open hand as he slides in behind the steering wheel.
"Lights, camera, action!" they sing and the engine roars awake. Dawson hammers the shifter to drive and they lurch onto the side street. They flit screech the first stop, float through the second and bound past the third to the on-ramp, merging smoothly with the four lane traffic.
Dawson lets the engine climb, sliding left to pass the few travelers. Within minutes the lanes clear before him and he holds a solid eighty-five.
He brights the lights, illuminating the concrete side-street barrier. The car glides from the left lane to the right lane at the curve's opening. Suddenly it noses hard right and goes over the shoulder lane, dead into the wall.
Scene #2, Monday, 12 July 1986
Blindsum flashes, pounding snares, lost screams, bent strings, desperate grasps, fat fingers; the dancer leaps to the rhythm she feels. A spin, a twist, a dive through the smoke. Fingers tear her costume as she gyrates from grasp to grasp, tossing her body, teasing her need, tormenting her mind. She flails the last straps of costume in the face of a crawler.
The song ends.
The dancer collapses to the floor. Rolls slowly from sight under the curtain. Then up to a quick stepping side-slide through the dangling ropes and the other dancers. She glides to her dressing room.
Behind the slammed the door she pulls on a long crimson robe. She throws herself across a costume-covered couch, flipping the radio on. Soft flamingo guitar riffs lull her eyes to sleep. She sighs deep and trans-rests.
The music silent-statics, "Eight p.m." The guitars resume.
Her eyes snap clear and she glances at the digital, 7:45. She ups, disrobes then pulls on used jeans, floppy black sweater, army boots and a full length white fur. Pips at the door. Trots through the dim corridor. Kicks the exit bar ajar. Jumps down the steps. Skip jumps across the alley.
At a Sprint convertible she side swings over and in. Then stomps the starter pedal. Slams first gear and pops the clutch. She projects through the dark alley, hard turning left, squealing between two Cadillacs. Shifts through second, quick pealing around a bumper. She floats third, passing a cab and two silver sedans to catch the last yellow.
As she edges from the ramp to the left lane, the freeway opens clear. At 90 mph, entering the long left curve, she downs to forth losing the rear wheels to the right lanes. Thirds it out from the shoulder and smashes into 4th, pulling back to the center lane.
As she shifts to fifth, the Sprint dives right toward the wall. As she downs to third, the metal folds against the concrete.
Scene #3, Tuesday, 13 July 1986
In the bowling bar after a match, the team is drinking, laughing and kidding of scores and missed spares.
The table quiets as the television flickers color and the announcer reports a guilty verdict of a Hollywood murder suspect.
The team Captain reopens the conversation, "They never did find the body, did they?"
Around the table, mutterings of, "No, no I don't think they did. No. Nope. Sure didn't. Too bad. A good actress. Yea and what a looker." Silence ensues as the men raise their glasses, sipping and slurping and dropping their mugs noisily to the table.
The Captain looks to Jake and gleefully adds, "Say Jake, they ever find your wife?"
Silence, as all eyes focus quickly from Jake to the Captain, then to their mugs.
Jake downs his mug to the table, somberly stares off to the distance, "No. No one has heard from her yet."
The Captain swallows, "Sorry Jake, I know how hard all this last year has been on you. The Feds still have her on the missing persons list?"
"Yea, gone now a whole year." Jake grimaces.
"You haven't heard a thing?"
"No, just plain gone." Jake shrugs.
The men begin interjecting random thoughts into their beers, "Yea another runaway housewife. Yea, shacked-up somewhere. Yea, probably Kansas. Yea got a whole new life. Yea Jake, you'll never see her again."
"Yea gone, just as well. You was fighting real terrible last Christmas, as I remember," gestures two fists.
"Fightin', yea I 'member too, that black eye and smashed picture window," fingers quick cover a tender socket.
"Say Jake you got any insurance on her? Being gone, leaving you with those two kids. Baby sitters get expensive," his thumb rubs his fingertip.
"Insurance? Say Jake could you loan me some money?" grins an open, empty wallet.
Jake's razzing nod stops, slamming his mug to the table. "What?!" his mouth gaps at the team.
Bobby Joe's friend nudges him in the side, "You dummy. Shut up. Seven years you got to wait. And then, she might come back." To Jake he calls over, "Just might up and 'pear on the back porch some morning."
Jake sips, dripping the mug to the table louder, "Yea."
To Jake's left, Bobby Joe blurts, "Seven years, Jake. No insurance money for seven years when missing." Bobby Joe sheepishly glances at all, resting his query on the Captain.
Jake slams the mug hard, splattering suds over the table, "Yea! Seven years. Damn insurance company! Baby sitters, day-care, housemaids. Man it gets real expensive. Damn insurance company."
Jake and the Captain's eyes meet across the table and hold steady.
As sneaky as summer's thunder, the chuckles and giggles from the men burst into roaring hysteria.
Jake's glare slips from a smile to a giggle, then suddenly into peals of maddening laughter.
The Captain's thin grin gradually changes to a jealous vengeful growl, "Seven long years Jake!"
Jake fumbles a cigarette from the pack to his mouth. Strikes a wooden match, breaking the lit head off, it falls into Bobby Joe's lap. He swipes at the exploding match, knocking the table ajar, spilling drinks and loose change to the floor.
The men grab for their drinks, sloshing beer onto their clothes.
Jake picks his wet hat from the floor, swears loudly at Bobby Joe and storms toward the exit. Pushes the door open and stamps across the parking lot to his car, beer dripping from his hat to his shoes.
He gets into his heavy Chevy, kicks over the engine and wheels out to the street. Glancing in his rear mirror, mutters, "Captain knows. Somehow he does. Damn him! But they'll never prove it, never! No body no crime. Only six more years to go then it's insurance money easy street. Ha!"
He glances at the Time & Temp sign over the Pepsi Factory, 8:15, "Eight fifteen. Eight fifteen. Damn. I was to get that new TV at eight. Damn those guys. Sure hope he aign't mad, me being late."
Catching all the red lights yellow, Jake takes to the freeway ramp. At fifty-five miles per hour the heavy Chevy bounds over a dip and sways from the merging lane to the vacant right lane. As his headlights loom the retaining wall he mutters, "I think it's the next exit."
To his delayed reaction his van just keeps angling toward the wall. When he finally snaps clear-headed, the steering wheel is locked firm toward the wall.
Washington, D.C. Federal Bureau of Investigation Headquarters, Unusual Crime Unit
Wednesday, 14 July 1986, 10:30 a.m.
On the sixth underground level sit the agency's top two investigators encased by technology's most advanced computers.
"The printer is clanging again. Are you sure you fixed that spindle chain?"
Hank lumbers over to the printer, peers at it, then calls over to Kerry, "Working just fine. This report is from Chicago."
Kerry sits erect, eyes popping open, "Haven't heard from them in months. What's going on out there?"
Hank shrugs, "Whatever it is must be strange. That's the weirdest city of the century." He turns and stands silent, looking over the clanging output. When finished, he rips the report loose from the cylinder and ambles back to Kerry's table,
"Just some car accidents." Shaking his head, he hands the tear sheet to Kerry. Reaches for his coffee cup, knocking it to the floor.
Kerry jumps back at the smattering cup, thudding his head against the wall. The chair holds on its back legs. Kerry reaches the report from the table, eyes Hank, then reads silently.
Hank kicks the pieces to the corner. Takes the broom and mop from the wall closet, then sweeps and cleans up the mess. Putting them away he takes another coffee cup from the upper shelf, mumbling, "Only two left."
Kerry looks from the report to Hank, "What? We got that set just last payday." Counting his finger tips, "That's one a day."
Hank turns slowly toward Kerry, "It really isn't my fault. It's the new dish washing soap, too slippery."
Kerry slows his hand to his shaking head. He leans forward, dropping the chair flat, reaches for his coffee cup, "I'll take a warm up." Scratching his chin, "There's more to this than simple car accidents."
Hank takes their cups to the coffee machine, fills both then shuffles back to the table. Overtly careful, he spills some on the report, "Sorry, just not my day."
"Seems to me this whole week hasn't been to good for you. Well maybe this new case will help get your mind right."
"Yea, it has been kind of boring. What do you make of it? Another car parts ring, insurance scammers or maybe some of those gang killings?" Hank dabs his handkerchief at the mess.
Quickly Kerry whisks the coffee off the report. Then slowly peals it from the table. Holding the limp sheet over the wastebasket, it drips. Then he tells Hank, "Send for a confirmation and get the stats on the victims and their cars."
Hank lumbers to the terminal and punches in the instructions.
Within minutes a duplicate report with the particulars is in Kerry's hands. He looks to Hank, "Go put the stats on the chalk board over there."
Hank fills the board with neat columns of the stats-info. Standing back, he looks over the board, shakes his head mumbling, "There aren't many commons."
Kerry nods in agreement, "Seemingly not. Just the road section and time."
Hank points at the board, double-checking, "Different type cars, different insurance companies, small policies, different jobs, different home locations. Here's something Kerry, two victims have felon charges and the other is out on bail."
"Yes Hank, being criminals is a link. Have Chicago P.D. send a complete inventory of their apartment effects. And I mean everything, even the number of tooth picks."
Hank chuckles and lumbers to the printer. Humming softly he punches the instructions forward. Within moments the printer begins clanging its response. Hank turns in surprise, peers at the new info and calls over to Kerry, "Seems as if their inspector's have been busy, here's the inventories."
Kerry nods, smiling, "Very good. I really didn't want to wait. This case has some substance to it." He carefully leans back against the wall, sips his coffee and stares at the chalkboard.
The printer quiets for a moment.
Hank tears the report loose. Reading it he ambles to Kerry. Stops in front of the table and puts the cup down. Missing the edge, it crashes on the floor.
Kerry watching, just shakes his head in disbelief.
Hank looks to the floor, "What? How did that happen?"
Kerry shakes his head, "The mop is in the closet."
The printer clangs rolling more words over the cylinder.
Hank glances at it. He eyes the broken cup pieces and kicks them to the pile in the corner. At the printer he rips loose the second inventory list as the printer begins the third. When complete, he tears the message free and takes both reports to Kerry. Glancing to one then to the other he utters, "Well at first glance, just the usual stuff we've all got. No real clues to me. You look it over, your mind works better on those hidden clues."
Kerry arranges the three reports on the table, looks up smiling, "The mop is in the closet."
Hank looks at the wet floor then ambles to the closet door. Opens it and pulls the mop from its waiting place. Then reaches to the shelf and takes down another cup, "One left, durn!"
Kerry shakes his head, "And one more week till payday. Think you'll make it?" Chuckles and looks to the reports, "Hank, turn the chalkboard around. Add to the list each victim's clothes, kitchen things, letters, bills, toiletries, furniture, food stuffs, knick knacks, books, tools, pictures, records, record player, radio, TV, car."
Hank leaves the mop by the door. Then ambles to the board, squeaking the new data. Done, he steps back, looks it over then circles CAR and the 8pm. He turns to Kerry, "You're right Kerry, these are not just simple car accidents. Why section 22 at 8pm and how. A real sicko."
Kerry smiles back at Hank, "Yes I think so too. The how intrigues me. Each victim, at the same highway section and at the same hour certainly looks like murder, lured by a very ingenious black widow. The why, I don't know. Hank, have Chicago seal and send all of the victims effects. There must be some clues their boys missed."
Hank knocks the chalk dust from his hands and lumbers over to the printer. Finished punching in the orders, he turns to Kerry, "What if it's just a random killing psycho?"
Kerry puzzles a frown, sips his coffee, "Well Hank, that's possible, yet I don't really think so. Each a known criminal element and the M.O. identical. Chicago suspected foul play and so do I."
Hank looks to the chalkboard, nods, then glances at the clock, "Time to go."
Scene #4, Wednesday, 14 July 1986
The dark shattered by the screaming sirens. The skies alit by the blaze of another tenement building. The streets filled by the curious. And the quiet of a distant alley is split by the curling laughter of a looping figure.
Clad in black, he calms, composing his emotions. He enters a small cafe, ambles to a corner table, peers deep into the waitress' eyes wondering. Orders his, "Pepsi no ice" and flips lit match after lit match into the empty ashtray. Box empty, he looks to the waitress asking if she has any matches.
She spies the burnt sticks scattered about and shakes her head no. Then returns to the counter, her dirty dishes.
He watches her fully for minutes. Slipping his hand to his inside pocket, he fingers a small flask. Unscrews the lid and slugs down the remains. Spins the lid tight and slips the empty into his jacket. With his left, he slips into the other pocket and pulls out another flask. This he holds to the light and eyes the contents. Smiles knowingly and slides it back to its pocket place.
He looks at the door. Ups and opens it, listening. Nods, turns to the counter, lays down a dollar and leaves, skipping down an alley to an open street.
Long, empty buildings loom threatenly to his passing eyes. He trembles, stops, peers at the broken windows, glances left and right, slipping the nitro flask from its waiting pocket place. Pulls a long wick from his pants, sticks it into the open flask and carefully places it on a busted windowpane.
Strikes a match and lights the wick. Lit, he turns in looping jog back through the alley and enters a street to flag a passing cab. It stops and he enters, slamming the door closed as the nitro explodes. He gives the driver zigzag directions, taking them further and further from the now inferno.
At a park he lays a $10 to the driver, exits and crosses into the empty dark. As the cab disappears around the corner he runs across the street. Then down an alley onto a side street where he gingers his car key into the lock. Fires up the engine and slowly drives to his apartment.
The garage door secured behind the Caddy, he exits. Flips the lights on and ambles to the workbench, extracting a small key from his watch pocket. He opens the padlock, swinging the doors open exposing flasks, tubes and multi-colored bottles arranged carefully on shelves. Extracting a Bunsen burner, he plugs it to a gas jet. Strikes a match and lights the burner, adjusting the flame. Taking three brown bottles from the shelf, he empties the contents into a flask above the flaming burner.
He then takes a stopper from the shelf, plugs the flask. Slipping a clear tube into its opening, he puts the other end in a small flask. He adjusts the flame higher and waits as the steam re-collects in the clear tube, condensing its volatile liquid into the empty flask. One hour later the flask is ready. He carefully extracts the tube, extinguishes the flame and replaces the bottles and burner to their respective places. Swings the doors closed and gingerly puts the half-full nitro flask in a foam lined, lock box.
The workbench clean, he glances around. Checks his wristwatch, nods to himself and opens another cabinet door and switches on the TV. The news is on with a live camera story of a building burning. He grins and extracts a small notebook from aside the TV. Noting the time beside the building's address, he opens another cabinet door.
Taking the phone receiver from the holder and he dials the number in the notebook, "Smith there? You looking at the news? Yea it's burning now. Yea the other too. Anything else you need done this month? Well call." Hanging the phone up, he puts the notebook back.
The TV, silent-statics, "8pm, 8pm, 8pm." He glances at it, reaches to the fine-tuning and fiddles it clear. Again it silent-statics, "8pm" inaudible, yet unconsciously heard.
He yawns, flips the channels, catching another live news report. This one reporting both the fires. He grins, laughs deep and pulls his gin flask out. Downs a large drink, flips the tube off then walks to a switch on the wall. Pushing it, a metallic creaking begins as a four poster bed unfolds from the ceiling, snapping firm on the floor. He throws himself upon it and is asleep as his feet settle over the edge.
From the depths of his dream a clock clangs its eight bells, shaking him from the sleep. He rolls to the floor, fumbles out his jacket flask, drinking down his dinner. Flips the bed switch and the poster bed folds up to its hiding place.
The phone rings, he opens the cabinet answering, "Hello, yea, ya I still want it. It's after eight already? Sorry, be right over." Phone to the hook, door locked, he goes to the Caddy. Enters, fires it up, hitting the garage button. The door opens and he backs slowly onto the street, flipping the CB radio to the police channel.
He wanders the dark side streets until he locates the interstate ramp. Gliding to the middle lane he holds the Caddy at the speed limit. He looks at the passing cars, glances at his speedometer, mutters, "They must be doing 90mph. Where's a cop when you need one?"
The car slips toward the right lane. He grasps the wheel, but the car continues to veer toward the shoulder. His teeth clenched, knuckles white with stress, the car steadies on the shoulder and he begins to relax. Suddenly the curve and the concrete wall appear, and his eyes widen. The car holds to its straight path, closing the gap from the wall.
He reaches to the ignition and offs it as the car is pulled into the wall. The scattering steel and glass are muffled by the gasoline tank explosion.
Washington, DC, F.B.I. HQ, U.C.U., Thursday, 15 July 1986, 9:00 am
Kerry sips his coffee, his eyes roving from report to the chalkboard to report.
Hank, sitting at the printer terminal, nods off to sleep. His coffee cup slips from his grasp and crashes to the floor, startling both investigators awake.
The printer clangs the day's first message.
Hank tears the finished report loose and ambles toward Kerry, "Chicago again. Another auto fatality at section 22 last night."
Kerry's eyes glisten, "8pm?'
"Yea, 8pm again," re-looking at the report.
Kerry rolls his hands together, then makes a space on the table for the new report, "Hank. Get me that new inventory of personal effects. Then have Chicago seal and send everything to our lab."
Hank lumbers back to the printer and punches in the orders. Looks at Kerry, "Anything else?"
Kerry smiles, "Yea, the mop's in the closet."
Hank looks down at the busted cup and nods okay. He kicks the broken pieces to the corner then ambles to the mop closet. Taking the last cup from the shelf, "Kerry? Could I buy another set of cups from petty cash? This is the last one."
Kerry, sipping coffee, nods, "Alright. We'll charge them to this case."
Hank smiles back, "Thanks. I'll call the order in to Supply."
The printer clangs on.
Hank lumbers to it. Peering down at its message, "It's the personal effects." He mops up the coffee mess. Finishing as the printer stops, he tears the report loose. He ambles over to Kerry, putting the mop in the closet and the report on the desk. Then lumbers back to the printer to make his Supply request.
Kerry cross-references the four reports. He stops, stares and calls to Hank, "See if our lab has the inventories from Chicago yet. Then have Chicago put that highway area under maximum surveillance: helicopters, planes, undercover cars and walkers. And lots of TV cameras, all angles and have it tied here live before 8pm tonight."
Hank beams, nodding in agreement then pounds the orders onto the terminal. The printer clanks a short blast and Hank views it, calling, "Our lab hasn't received their personal effects yet."
Kerry nods, "Okay," and continues to pore over the reports.
Washington, DC, F.B.I., HQ, U.C.U., Thursday, 15 July 1986, 1:00 p.m.
The printer clangs on again.
Hank jerks from his nap to the noise. Reading aloud, "The personals are in the lab and Supply has my, ah, the new coffee cups."
Kerry sits erect and ambles toward the door, "Tell the lab we'll be right there. I want to check on a few notions."
Hank punches in the orders then shuffles to meet Kerry at the door.
Scene #5, Thursday, 15 July 1986
Open each quickie scene with foggy dims on two nude figures on a couch with clarity as the camera closes in on the male face.
The same female in each quickie but different males.
The female's conversation is identical each scene. The males' vary according to facial make-up.
Camera only accents facial petting on kisses, lips, ear lobes, tongue streaks. Zooms from small stacks of loose change money, to male faces, then back to stacks of paper money.
As vocal petting loudens of grunts, groans, yips and ohws, the camera fads into foggy dims.
After eight male faces and short conversations, the radio silent-statics. The camera focuses on the radio then pans to the female face in a frozen trance. Another silent-static "8pm" and the scene fads.
Camera does a gradual clarity of the female driving a hardtop convertible. Speedometer at 110mph. Seconds of zipping through traffic, night-lights streaking to fuzzy.
Final scene of lips against windshield; slow motion on initial impact to speeding of enlarging lips then fade out, foggy dims.
Washington, DC, F.B.I., HQ, U.C.U., Thursday, 15 July 1986, 7:50 p.m.
The computer room is in dim violet light as the tele-screens are showing section 22 of Illinois Interstate 55, Chicago from five viewpoints.
A small convertible looms in two of the screens. One screen is displaying a long highway overview. One is slowly panning the left side-street buildings and the other the right side buildings.
Suddenly the convertible angles to the wall. One screen pans a quick close up of its crash. The other of the victim's face, large red lips.
Kerry yells to Hank, "Hit the lights and have screen 3 and 5 run instant replays."
Hank punches in the instructions. And the highway over view and the convertible crash are re-run. The other screens continue to display the live action.
Hank calls over to Kerry, "She seemed very surprised to me. Like she'd lost control of the vehicle."
Kerry nodding agreement, "Yes, so it did seem."
"A mechanical malfunction?"
"Possible, yet the previous accident reports did not indicate tampering." Kerry shuffles some papers about the desk.
"Then how is the murderer causing a wreck just at that section, at that time?"
Kerry scratches his chin, "Not sure yet. Have our lab and Chicago's review those tapes. Instruct Chicago P.D. to keep the area under surveillance. And I want infra-red cameras on line and helicopter radar scanning the whole area."
Hank nods and punches in the orders. Stretches back and yawns.
Kerry leans back, "Well let's call it a night."
Scene #6, Friday, 16 July 1986
Distant vision of a ten story building zooming quickly to a lit window on the sixth floor. The rest of the building windows are dark. Within is a room of mirrored walls, ceiling and floor. Lining two opposite walls are racks of clothes: shirts, pants, suits, dresses, hats, coats. Loose clothes litter the floor. The room is illuminated through ceiling mirrors. Littered about on an octagonal glass table are newspaper obituary clippings with some names lined through in various colored ink.
In the hands of a slender white, white middle-aged male are two shirts. He looks first to one then the other, finally settling on a pink pullover. On, he looks at the newspaper. Turns open a few pages of a phone book and punches out a number on a black desk phone.
"Yes, who is this?" he speaks first.
"Excuse me sir, you called me."
"Exactly, so what do you want now?" he gestures impatient.
"Pardon me sir, but you called me, just who do you want to talk to?"
"Oh pardon yourself, you cagey lady," he winks at the phone.
"Look here, just what are you talking about?"
"Hold the phone lady, I've just got to change back to black, sorry," and he hits the box button and pulls the sweater from his shoulders, flips it high into the air and giggles, "Don't you just hate those arm bands, so tacky."
"Sir, I'm going to hang this phone up."
"Looky mommy dear, don't be so cruel to your mourning son," he wraps his arms about his self.
"What, what's this you're saying? My son died in the war. Just what kind of person are you? My son gone, now my husband. Just what kind of sick person are you?" her exasperated anger.
As he adjusts the turtle neck and flips a quick smile to the mirror, he turns and jumps at the phone with a high squeal, "Whiiiiiiiiiy your kind of sickie, mommy. Mommy dear mommy, I'm back. Back from the war, dear mommy."
"Sir you are are are..." click!
As the receiver buzz clicks dead, he spins and spins, giggling and grinning at the mirrors on the wall, then at the ceiling. Under a pile of clothes, he lays quiet on the floor, starring at his reflection. Slowly he pulls the sweater over his head.
Bare back to the cold mirrored floor, he breathes deeply cooing, "Mommy, dearest mommy." He shivers. Suddenly roll jumps to the table and lines out a name with a pink crayon. Looking over the list, he throws them down, "Done mommy, all done, damn. Tomorrow's another day, surely one of them will want to play. Yea mommy, what do you say?"
He grabs a black robe and dances over to the TV, flips it on and sits down on a pile of clothes. Reaches over to the tube, ups it and rolls to his back, closes his eyes and begins to massage his temples.
A very subtle, "8pm, 8pm, 8pm," silent-statics his conscious, as the news announcer begins his captions of the day's events.
He sits up. Looks at the fuzzy TV screen and yanks the plug, mumbling, "Yea mommy, got to get that new color television for your soaps. Sorry mommy." Dressing in red hat and shoes, he pulls a full-length crimson raincoat over his nude body. Picks up the TV and his satchel, dims the apartment lights and exits.
As the elevator opens, he glances shyly through the opening. Satisfied, he strolls pertly to his silver streaked Citron Sedan. Comfortable behind the wheel, he pushes the starter switch and the generator hums smoothly on. Flipping the headlamps open, he adjusts the mirrors, rewinds the fusion tape, then slips the clutch out. It jerks and jumps forward, throwing him around the seat. The Citron Sedan settles smoothly as the speed increases through the underground garage. Its door opening as he drives under its rising folds, missing the edge by inches.
The building's driveway merges directly onto the freeway on-ramp. And within minutes the Citron holds to the 55mph cruise controls. Staying in the middle lane, his road duties are few as the speeders pass on his left and the off-ons, his right. His eyes narrow to slits, weary of his day's fun. His bob and hum timing to the radio music, a fusion beat slows as he settles into the seat.
Near asleep, hand lightly on the wheel, he becomes slightly aware of the long curve and the Sedan's gradual drift toward the wall. When finally he realizes he's headed for the wall, he jams the brakes and spins the wheel. The Citron smashes and crashes the wall numerous times, bursting into flames.
Scene #7, Saturday, 17 July 1986
The petite, perky brunette waitress smiled goodnight to the last couple, bidding them a pleasant evening and a welcome to return as she crumpled the dollar tip into her pocket. She flipped the open sign over to CLOSED and turned the door lock, then looked over to her boss in frowned conversation with a smart dressed, youthful business accountant.
Her boss kept shaking her head in disbelief while paging through the loose leafed ledger, mumbling, "How can this be, how can this be, business has been booming these last weeks." All the waitress could hear from the accountant was, "Well yes, your receipts have been good this past month, but your cash flow over the summer was negative." Her boss glanced up and glared at her eaves dropping.
The young girl blushed and quickly darted into the back kitchen where the cook was putting the last of the pots up to dry. He eyed her and she frowned, taking her apron loose from her waist, placed it on a hook, took her coat down and left through the back door.
The cook then peaked through the open orders window at his boss still shaking her head and asked her huskily, "Anything else you need done boss?"
She jerked up from the ledger, half-hollering at him, "NO! No nothing. Don't bug me!"
"Well then Hazel, I'm done back here and a goin' home."
"Fine!" she retorted.
"See ya tomorrow!" he called back as he left, slamming the door behind him.
"Yea maybe," she called back at his shadow.
She sat back in the booth, slammed the ledger book in disgust and frustration, then glared at the smiling accountant, "Well Mr. Tanning! Just exactly what does all this mean. Like what's the bottom line here?"
He starred back into her broken face, reached over to the ledger, took the book from her, opened it to the last page, cleared his throat, straightened his tie and held the page for her to see.
"Simply stated Hazel, you are beyond bankruptcy. The repairs and the expansion room you made this past summer consumed your profits of the spring quarter. Your note payments are three months in arrears and my agency is forced to foreclose. That is unless you can come up with your delinquent payments by the month's end."
Hazel sat forward pointing an accusing finger, her voice crackling near hysteria, "You! You did this to me. Three years I've been in business here. Struggled to build a solid clientele. Paid my investment loan off the first year. Money ahead, savings built the second year. Then, then your agency, you in fact, came into my place with promises. Promises of growth and prosperity. Expand. Invest in the place. Build bigger. Increase customer space. More customers, more income. So I did. And now, six months later, you say I'm bankrupt and you're going to foreclose! Damn you, damn damn you and your agency!"
Hazel slams her fist to the table, grabs up her coffee cup and throws the remains at Mr. Tanning. The tepid fluid saturates his suit and splashes over his glasses.
Unmoving, he takes his handkerchief from his inside pocket and cleans his glasses then brushes his shirt. He picks up the ledger and closes it. He glances at the clock, 7:45. He clears his throat, "You must excuse me mame, I've an appointment at 8pm and must take my leave. I remind you, you have till the month's end to clear your delinquent account."
He slides from the booth, ledger under his arm, downs his hat and bids her, "A pleasant evening Hazel, I'm truly sorry your business expansion didn't work out."
Hazel grabs the napkin holder from the table and pitches it at him as he walks away. It flies over his left shoulder and crashes harmlessly against the wall.
Mr. Tanning turns the door lock open and departs to his car. He pulls the keys from his pocket, unlocks the new convertible, slides into the leather seat, and places the ledger on the passenger seat. Key in the ignition he fires up the engine, warms it, then pulls out onto the street. Glancing in the mirror at the flashing neon, HAZEL'S, he concludes, "Yes. I think, I'll change the name of that place."
He looks at the digital dash clock, 7:58, and enters the on-ramp, muttering, "8pm, hope he holds that new TV for me like he said. Appears I'll be a little late."
Mr. Tanning settles back against the headrest and eyes the road before him, reaches over to the radio and pushes the on button. The radio cracks loose a line from a current rock song, "You're just another brick in the wall."
He begins to rock to its beat when his attention becomes focused on the nearing retaining wall. He fights with the wheel to straighten his auto's path. But futile his efforts, as he soon becomes just another smear against the wall.
Washington DC, F.B.I., HQ, U.C.U., Saturday, 17 July 1986, 8:30 am
"Well Kerry, that's the third smash-up we've seen. And all the drivers were surprised and were fighting for control of the car. And lost to the wall." Hank flips two switches, offing the monitor screens and oning the room lights.
"The 'dead zone', to paraphrase Chicago news."
"Kerry, you don't think it's more of that voodoo stuff, do you?" Hank shivers, shaking his arms.
Kerry leans back against the wall, chuckles, "No, Hank. But some of those Chicago people do. The press is having a real field day with that dead zone phrase."
Hank shakes his head, skews his eyebrows and looks to the chalkboard. He ambles over to the second board and prints up the new stats. Steps back, puts his hands in his pockets and slowly rocks back and forth, "Not voodoo. And certainly not suicide. Murder maybe, but no mechanical tampering reported. No blinking lights. The tires weren't blown. And no driver gun shot wounds."
Kerry sits erect, quickly exclaiming, "Shot! That's it Hank! They were shot."
"But Kerry, the autopsy reports were clear of gun shot wounds." pointing at the chalkboard.
"Yes Hank, they were shot by something else."
Hank's eyes brighten, "You mean like those new alpha waves the Russians were using on our embassies?"
"Exactly!"
"The radar didn't register any type of interference." Hank fingernails the chalkboard.
"Must be a new unusual frequency. Have the lab take our latest equipment to Chicago before tomorrow night. Have them completely cover a ten-mile radius. We'll have our culprit soon." Kerry twirls an imaginary mustache curl.
Hank still staring at the chalkboard, rocking on his heals again, mumbles, "8pm, 8pm, lost control, lost control, shot? Shot? Shot from what? Shot of what? Lost control from a shot of what?" He slowly turns to Kerry, "Maybe each of those victims were drugged. And when they got to the dead zone, the drug did its thing. They lost control and crashed."
"Hank. I gave that idea some thought too, but the timing is so close and most importantly, they crashed at the same curve, the same wall."
Hank frowns for a moment, then beams aloud, "A hypnotic suggestion and a drug. The dentist could have done it. Doped them up when fixing their teeth and suggested, told them they'd lose control when they saw a certain curve or a road sign along the highway."
Kerry frowns, scratches his chin, then, "Okay Hank, let's run with that. Told them to drive on that highway near 8pm to get something and to freeze or freak-out, losing mechanical control for just long enough for the speed to take them to the wall. "
Hank nods, "Ya, hypnotic drug suggestion."
"Well it would have to be a pretty powerful drug and recently administered for the suggestion to work. But the autopsy didn't show any such chemical. Still, it's possible. Have Chicago P.D. backtrack their on-goings for the previous two weeks. There has to be a common link," Kerry rubs his chin and stares up at the ceiling.
Hank lumbers to the printer and types the instructions. Finished, he yawns, "Let's call it a night.
Scene #8, Sunday, 18 July 1986
"Look lady, $650 is the going scale for three year olds this season, take it or peddle your brat elsewhere," snarled the dramphish middle-aged man, his tie askew, worn rumpled suit spotted with the dribbled coffee stains of weeks past.
Across the table a skinny black girl sits retching her knuckles against the palms of her hands. She glances down at the frighten-eyed child near tears, a whimper slipping from her throat. Then she lays her hand against the child's face, "Shut up! Eat your pizza. Keep quiet and this nice man will take you to your new dry home."
The little girl's eyes dart from her captor to the weathered face of the buyer. He smiles at her and the girl's eyes tear, her body tremoring. Her captor slaps her again, "Eat your pizza."
The weasel faced man pulls a wad of bills from his pocket and waves them at the young woman, "Well, you want this or not?"
The young woman looks around, spying the fat matron cook slicing potatoes into tiny pieces, which fall into the sizzling grease. She looks back at the child and grabs the loose bills from the man.
She quickly counts and folds them into her shirt pocket, looks down at the child and gestures another slap, checks herself and growls, "You be nice, do what this man says, no crying or screaming or I'll come back and beat the hell out of you! Got it kid?!"
The young woman slide jumps from the booth and runs to the waiting wreck of an old Oldsmobile.
The weathered man grins at the little girl, picks up a long kid's trench coat and hands it to the girl, "What's your name honey?"
"Melisa," slips gently from the tiny voice.
"Well Melisa, here's a new coat for you. Are you done eating?"
Melisa looks at the piece of pizza remaining, picks it up and nibbles a few bites, looks up, "Yes."
"Well then it's time to go to your new home. I know you'll like it there. The people are nice, not mean like that black woman who hit you. They will give you new clothes and toys."
Melisa stares at the man, at the coat he holds for her and begins to cry, "Mommy, mommy. I want my mommy."
The man gets up from his place and rounds the booth and sits beside her. He pats her shoulders and holds a napkin before her, "Now, now Melisa, quiet your tears. I know you want your mommy. I want my mommy sometimes too. You quiet now, put on this coat and maybe the people at your new home will help you find your mother. She got lost."
Melisa looks up at the man, takes the napkin and dries her face, "My mommy's lost?"
"Yes, your mommy got lost. So we have found you a new home, a new mommy. And maybe if you are a good, quiet little girl they might find your old mommy. So quiet now, put on this coat and my friend will take you to your new mommy. Okay Melisa?"
Melisa looks at the coat and takes it. She looks at the man, "My new mommy will find my mommy?"
"Yes, I'm sure she will. But remember to be quiet and not cry, be nice and I'm sure she will find your old mommy." Smiling wide, he gestures the coat toward her.
Melisa's face begins to brighten, "Well okay, I can be quiet. I won't cry. And we will find my mommy?"
"Yes, yes. She will find your mommy," he grins and nods her reassuringly.
Melisa smiles.
The man smiles. He stands up, pointing, "Well here comes my friend. She will take you to your new mommy. There they will find your old mommy. Now put on your coat, it's time to go. Remember you must be quiet. Real quiet."
Melisa outs the booth and puts on the trench coat, "Yes I will be quiet, I can remember. We will find my lost mommy."
A large old woman comes through the door, walks over to the weasel and grunts, "Ready?"
"Yes, little Melisa is ready. She promised to be quiet. She's a nice girl who just wants to help find her lost mommy." He looks down at the child, "Right, Melisa?" who simply nods yes.
The old woman clad in a brown trench coat thrusts her hand toward Melisa, "Good. Hold my hand Melisa, we will help you find your lost mommy."
Melisa takes the woman's hand and they turn to leave. The man calls, "Say Hog, you forgot something didn't ya?"
The woman stops, reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out an envelope, turns back and hands it to him, turns and leaves.
He opens the envelope and counts the bills, "...13, 14, 15 hundred," smiles to himself, laughs, "Ha ha ha. Another lost mommy, too bad." Walks over to the cook, flipping the sizzling potatoes, hands her three hundred and smiles, "Call me when the next one arrives."
She nods, pocketing the money in her brassiere.
Outside the cafe he takes a deep breath, looks to the stars and mutters, "What a great place, what an easy life, Chicago and the free enterprise system, should have moved here long ago." Pulls his keys from his pocket, enters his Rolls Royce, fires up the engine up and backs onto the street.
Cruising along the freeway he begins humming, "Only in America, land of opportunity." When his wristwatch buzzes, he eyes it and swears, "Damn! Eight o'clock, damn near forgot that TV deal."
Looks back to the road to see his last as the Rolls crumbles and bursts into flames, marking another greasy spot on the wall.
Washington, DC, F.B.I., HQ, U.C.U., Sunday, 18 July 1986, 7:45 p.m.
Hank wearily closes the door and lumbers to the printer terminal and collapses in his chair. Reaches for his coffee cup and gulps the remains. Replaces the cup and turns toward Kerry, "Well that's the third time we've been through their stuff. I still haven't any ideas."
The printer clangs on.
Hank jumps back around, knocking the cup to the floor. He settles back in his chair and stares at the broken pieces.
The printer quiets.
"The mop is in the closet," drones Kerry, smiling to himself, "What's Chicago doing?"
Hank leans forward, reads the new report, rips it loose and ambles over to Kerry's table, "They have the whole area ready. All the equipment is in place. They want to do a house to house search."
Kerry scratches his chin, "No, not yet. No sense in panicking that many citizens."
Hank nods, "Yea, the victims were just criminals anyway."
Kerry peers at Hank, glancing to the chalkboards and to the reports, "That's right Hank. And that is the link."
Hank puzzling, "Yea, they were all criminals. That's a commonality, but how is it the link we've been looking for?"
Kerry grins, "It's the why. Remember, the how intrigued me and the why I didn't know. It's near 8pm, turn the screens on."
Hank punches the screen buttons then turns and ambles back to the black board, red lines the criminal charge of each, steps back and looks to Kerry, "Seven suspected or known criminal elements, dead. Each crashed mysteriously against a highway wall. Yea that's a definite why."
Kerry leans back, "Yea murdering known criminals, a vigilante, the classic poetic justice rationale."
Hank holds his cup high, "A private crime stopper. But how did he get them against that wall? The coroner's report was a definite no on hypnotic drugs."
Kerry nods thoughtfully, "Yes and I've gone over each victim's basic daily activity report. And I must agree with Chicago not one item of commonality in action. In fact the total lack of any over-lap; doctor, grocery, night club, even gas stations, has me even more convinced these are all connected, thoroughly planned executions."
Hank turns from his stare of the chalkboard, and softly says, "Kerry they all had telephones. I'll cross check all the phone records. The murderer may have been a salesman. Had set up a meeting at 8pm at a place which forced them to travel along the dead zone."
Kerry smiles in agreement, "My thoughts precisely. Get to those phone records ASAP."
Hank is rocking on his heals, muttering to his self, "Then when they passed near section 22..."
Kerry quick-ins, "You mean the dead zone."
Hank continues, "...he shoots them with a new kind of ray gun, ZAP. They lose control of the wheel, smash and crash."
Hank looks up to the screen and silently watches as the Rolls smashes against the wall, "Kerry! That was a Rolls Royce. Wow. What an explosion! Wonder what his crime was. A Rolls for a ride, a real high roller. Drugs, the numbers, embezzler, or maybe a kingpin?"
"Hank, get Chicago on the line!" Kerry leaps to his feet.
Hank snaps the receiver up and punches the number. The screen illuminates and the speakers crackle, "Cpt Locke here HQ. What can I do for you?"
Kerry barks to the screen, "Captain! What did the radar find?"
The Captain turns from the screen and puts a phone receiver to his ears, nods and jots some notes on a pad, turns back to the screen, "HQ. Sorry. Nothing on the infrared or the ultra-subs. The High Intensity and the Atomic Particle registers went on the fretz right before the crash."
Kerry nods and smiles, "Very good. Get that equipment fixed by tomorrow night. OUT!" To Hank, "Let's call it a day."
Scene #9, Monday, 19 July 1986
Boots resting over an array of newspapers and magazines, hands holding warm beer cans, baseball caps tilted over one eye, pot bellies showing through lost buttons, the two unshaven twins are finally having their family reunion.
"Evil they were. You know it, you said so! You did."
"Yea! Yea! I said they were evil, but damn Robby Lee, that aign't no call to be poppin 'em like that."
"Evil! Evil! They was evil. The Devil's handmaidens out to ruin another God fearin man."
"Robby Lee. This here's the city and city folk has got different ways. And them whores you popped is okay with these city folks. Really!"
"Evil, the Devil's handmaidens, whorin god's laws asunder and doin the Devil's deeds. Ruinin, temptin good men, family men."
"Robby Lee, them God fearin men can take care of themselves. You aign't no angel yourn self."
"Damn your hide Billy Paul. I'm the most God fearin man 'round, and you know it. I go to church every Sunday, coach the kids' softball and make all the revivals."
"Yea Robby Lee you make church and the revivals. And the taverns, before and after, washing down them pitchers of beer. God's work indeed. Tell me Robby Lee, just when did you begin poppin them evil people?"
"Well sir, let me think. It's been quite a long spell, now on 8 years. He come to me in a dream after my rebirth. Telling me to keep evil out of town, away from my family and friends. Yes sir, long on eight years now it's been."
"A dream you had wider than that thern shade tree in the back, was it?! Told you to keep the evil from town. What kinds of evil, Robby Lee? Just how you keep that Devil's crew from town?"
"God's work, his most important work, fightin the Devil, chasin off his hordes. Told me just to keep them from town. Didn't say just how. So's I'd ask 'em, if they stayed then I'd tell 'em. Then I'd pop 'em."
"Robby Lee I aign't goin believe folks up and left town cause you asked 'em or told 'em."
"Really Billy Paul. They's did, up and packed and was out of town in one day."
"Robby Lee, just how many evil people you run out of town these eight long years?"
"Three hundred and twenty seven."
"What!"
"Yea, I wrote 'em down in the book to show St. Peter when my day comes."
"Three hundred and twenty seven people left town cause you asked 'em?"
"Yea that's right Robby Lee, I got 'em all in the book. Neat and straight for St. Peter 'em self."
"Robby Lee, you showed anybody this hern book?"
"No sir, it's just for St. Peter."
"Robby Lee, that's a lot of people."
"Not so many, it's been eight years."
"And they all left, just up and packed, didn't say no, just up and left? No trouble at all?"
"Well some of 'em said no. No sir they wouldn't all go. God's work aign't that easy."
"Well that's a little easier to believe. Just how many said no?"
From the pocket of his bathing robe, he pulls free a blue note book. He rolls to a sitting position on the white bear rug. Then pages to the back and begins counting aloud, "1,2,3...35,36,37...59,60,61...73."
Peering from the pages, he sneaks a grin at Billy Paul, who mouth agape, coughs, "73 folks said no, only 73. Well then I was right, they didn't all leave."
"No Robby Lee, they are all gone. I do good the God's work."
"But you said they said no. How did you get them to leave?"
"In the buryin wagon."
"What!? You, you popped 'em? All them that said no? You got to be pullin my leg!!"
"No sir Billy Paul, God don't hold with lying."
"So you sit here on my living room floor, drinkin my beer, sleepin on my couch, a eatin my food and tellin me the tallest tale I ever done heard. And you expect me to believe it."
"Billy Paul, I do good the Lord's work."
"Yes sir Robby Lee, you sure have."
The phone rattles the room and Billy Paul breaks his stare of his twin cousin from the country and jumps to the phone, nervously whispers, "Graham's residence. Yes this here's me. The TV's ready? Oh good, yea, yea, we can get it tonight. Eight, yea, 8'll be fine." He sets the receiver back on the hook and turns to his cousin, "The new TV's ready."
"Yea, I heard. You say it's color?"
"Yea, the repairman gave me such a deal, I like color."
"Yea, me too. Let's go, it's near on 7."
Robby Lee walks to the closet and downs his windbreaker. Grabs the long rain coat and pitches it to his cousin. Billy Paul stands clumsily and slips the coat on over his bathroom. At the door they both slip on their cowboy boots.
At the car Robby Lee opens the door for Billy Paul, jogs to the driver's door, reaches through the open window to the door handle, opens and enters. Slipping the key quickly into the ignition, he kicks the gas pedal twice, yells, "Start you mother monster or to the junk yard tomorrow."
Flips the key and the motor roars awake.
As the engine quiets to idle, Billy Paul looks at his cousin in awed shock, "73 said no, huh."
"Right!"
He shakes his head slowly and knocks the shifter into drive. The car lops down the drive, pauses at the street and jets across the street traffic. Ongoing cars screeching to stop, he aims down the on-ramp and roars onto the freeway at 95mph. Slipping through the few slow drivers he settles back against the seat and turns to his cousin, "Robby Lee. What did Sheriff Williams say about all them dead people?"
"Well sir Billy Paul, I don't rightly know. I never met the Sheriff."
"Oh! Well then, what did the newspapers say 'bout all them dead?"
"Robby Lee! You knows I don't read."
"Oh yea, I kinda forgot. You still go into Rosy's Cafe for breakfast?"
"Yea."
"Well what did she say 'bout them dead?"
"Oh, me and Rosy talked 'bout 'em once. She said the Sheriff thinks the Boston Strangler lives in town. That's what she was readin in the paper."
Robby Lee looms through a slight dip and angles from the long concrete curve, side tires squealing the strain. He shakes his head again, "Amazin, just amazin. My very own cousin been doin God's work all these long years. And him never let on to me at all."
Robby Lee glances over at Billy Paul. They grin and simultaneously say, "God works in strange and mysterious ways."
As their eyes glint, the concrete wall greets them.
Washington DC, F.B.I. HQ, U.C.U., Monday, 19 July 1986, 8:05 p.m.
Hank shakes his head and swivels his chair toward Kerry, "Those two didn't even know what hit them, so lost in their conversation."
Kerry nods and sits back against the wall, "Hank, put the replays of those drivers on the screen."
Hank ambles to the printer, punches a few keys, the screens drop, the lights dim and the struggled faces of the last accident victims appear in slow motion.
Hank lights the room and looks to Kerry, "They looked in control, fighting the wheel, just like a front tire blowout."
Kerry scratches his chin, leans forward to the table thoughtfully, "Yea? You sure? Looked like they didn't lose control, control was taken from them."
Hank's face beams, "You mean, he shot the car? But the accident reports were negative. Even our boys could not find any conclusive mechanical tampering."
Kerry rests his chin on his hand, stares at the blank screens, then to the reports. Finally he looks curiously to Hank, "What type of ray would knock out the High Intensity and the Atomic Particle registers? And push a car to the wall?"
Hank adds, "Push? Maybe pull."
Kerry's eyes pop, his fingers snap and his voice booms, "A magnetic ray! A very powerful condensed, concentrated magnetic ray projected toward two thousand pounds of iron would pull or push it to the wall."
Hank looks peculiarly, "A laser magnet? Pin pointed to one short quick blast and zam blam another spot on the wall. And none of our equipment registers magnetism."
Kerry jumps up and points to the printer, "A laser magnet would have to draw quite a massive amount of electricity. Have the computer run a monitored wattage display for a large short term usage over that entire section of highway."
Hank lumbers to the terminal and begins hammering in the instructions.
The printer clangs a new message before Hank finishes. He tears loose the report, eyes the pages, then circles some of the numbers, "We got a common phone number." He punches in more instructions.
The printer clangs briefly.
Hank calls, "The Power Company records over 20,000 kilowatts used from 6-8 p.m. each of the crash nights. At #4 Logan Place, a John Smythe, television-radio repairman."
Kerry smiles, rocks in his chair and calls back, "Have Chicago P.D. pick him up."
Washington DC, F.B.I. HQ, U.C.U., Monday, 19 July 1986, 9:30 p.m.
The printer clanks and Hank knocks the coffee cup from his lap to the floor. One of the broken pieces flies through the air and nicks Kerry on the knee. In reaching for the pain, he bumps into his own cup. It too, crashes against the floor. Kerry, holding his knee, peers over the table's edge in disbelief.
Hank ups and ambles to the wall closet, takes the mop free and hands it toward Kerry, "Here's the mop."
Kerry slowly looks from the broken pieces to Hank, "What's on the printer?"
Hank cracks a grin, then lumbers to the printer. Looks at the new message, tears it free and ambles back to Kerry.
Kerry looks to Hank, "Well, what does it say?"
Hank looks to the report, "Chicago 9:28pm. A SWAT team stormed #4 Logan Place. They found an array of televisions and radios in various states of repair. The basic kitchen and bathroom. In a padlocked side room, was a wall of speakers and note pads. Behind another padlocked door were twenty D.C. batteries linked in parallel with wires sniped at the A.C. window socket. The neighbors reported a white van left ten minutes prior to the SWAT team."
Kerry sits back, scratching his chin, "Cut wires by the window? He took the laser and ran. Must have had the police channel monitored."
Hank nods and hands the mop to him.
Kerry frowns, "Not now, we still have some investigating to do. A laser means an electronic genius. Let's check those personal effects again."
Hank places the mop against the table, kicks the broken pieces to the corner and follows Kerry to the lab.
Washington DC, F.B.I. HQ, U.C.U., Monday, 19 July 1986, 10:30 p.m.
Hank drops the box on the table as Kerry slides into his chair. Hank pulls out a small microphone, "It's amazing how this small bug can send and receive. That's how the Magnet knew they were criminals."
Kerry nods, "Yes Hank, an ingenious scheme. Disguised as a TV-Radio repairman, our vigilante Magnet was able to screen his customers, then lured them to their end."
Hank, holding an electronic device in his right hand and a coffee cup in his left nods, "Judge, jury and executioner. And fooled the press by doing them in at the same time, the same place and in the same manner. Viz-a-whiz, the mysterious dead zone and no suspects. A brilliant plan."
Kerry nods, "Yes, undoubtedly. Have Chicago send his prints ASAP."
Hank lumbers to the printer and types the instructions. He looks to Kerry, "Do you think this Magnet has done this elsewhere?"
Kerry looks to the chalkboard, scratches his chin, "Maybe. This is a new department and these accidents might have gone unsolved and forgotten except for us. Have the computer scan all accident reports over the last five years for similar patterns."
Hank turns to the terminal and lays in the instructions. He ups and ambles to Kerry, holding the mop out.
Kerry smiles, "It's late. Maybe tomorrow." And leaves.
Washington DC, F.B.I. HQ, U.C.U., Tuesday, 20 July 1986, 10:00 a.m.
Hank is leaning over the printer, reading over the waiting report.
Kerry pours coffee into two cups, taking them to the printer. "Here's your coffee, where's that one from?"
Hank reaches for the cup, while reading, "The first one is from Chicago, no fingerprints in the Magnet's apartment, only the customers."
Surprised, Kerry jerks, "What?!" And the cup slips between their hands, crashing and splattering hot coffee on both their legs. He yelps and stumbles aback.
Hank catches Kerry's his coat tails and Kerry grabs the printer, securing his balance but dropping the second cup.
Hank looks at Kerry, then at the broken cups, smiles and points to the wall closet, "There are two cups left on the shelf. This time you fetch the mop."
Kerry smiles a grin, "Where is the other report from?"
Hank hands it to him.
Kerry takes it to his table. Sitting back in his chair, reading over the report, he calls to Hank, "The main computer has found eight other cities with similar 'magnet' wall accidents, ranging from three to seven within a two week period. All the victims were criminal elements. The deaths ending as mysteriously as they began. No convictions, no suspects."
Hank punches the keyboard and the large U.S. map drops from the ceiling and illuminates the various cities. He then ambles to the wall closet and extracts the mop. He lumbers the mop over to Kerry, handing it forward he grins at him, "Where. Where next the Magnet?"
### the end. January/February 1987
RETURN TO INDEX index
The Y2K computer systems crash predicted for January 1, 2000 turned out to be a bust. Because of adequate warnings by the world's computer technicians the world's businesses and governments and financial institutions had made the necessary corrections to their computer systems. The worlds' computer systems continued functioning throughout the day, consequently a great celebration was had by all on the first day of that new year.
Then, quite unexpectantly at 11:55pm January 1, 2000, Greenwich time, the sun went nova and blasted a magnetic pulse across its solar system. At midnight the electronic carnage began. Like an imaginary line the magnetic pulse devastated the world's computers. It erased financial networks and shut down essential services as the earth revolved through pulse waves. By the end of the day the sun's magnetic shock wave had made a mockery of the great Wall Street Crash of October 1929 and would be noted by historians as the Y2K Pulse.
The magnetic pulse carnage hit government and financial systems the hardest. It decimated the local city services of water, gas and electricity. It was as if a giant rubber band that encircled the world snapped, throwing the planet off of its slowly revolving axis. Immediately the lower classes were thrown into total poverty. Welfare checks ceased to be printed. Accounts representing retirees' old-age security suddenly became empty. Millions of everyday Joes and Janes' life savings were lost in the miles of computer red tape. The banks turned them away with promises that it would all, eventually, be straightened out. Families and small businesses were destroyed as computers failed to recognize people and transactions from 1901 to 1999. It was as if all the trillions of dollars of the world suddenly ceased to exist.
By the end of the first week of the year 2000 everything had ground to a halt as the Y2K Pulse crash caused all electrical, sewage and transportation services to stop. No one could get into the factories and the office buildings where computers ran time locks. And if they did get in, the confused desktop and industrial computers would not work. What people saw in those first days was that the red tape spaghetti, which wound throughout the world, could not be unraveled by the businesses or the governments of the past.
Within the first days of the crash a New World Government (NWG) had been formed. The NWG immediately created the Budgetary Allowance Commission (BAC). The power assumed by the BAC was among the first signs of a world gone mad. The wealthy in charge of BAC decided that since everyone's money was in such an upheaval, all money would become property of the commission. The BAC then determined and decreed that accounts of people whose private assets had been valued at over a million dollars before Y2K Pulse would remain the same. And everyone else would start the new century on an equal basis; meaning that all savings and all debts were erased.
The BAC then decided based on a person's age, family responsibilities and working class category, how much each individual would earn and by taxed. They also determined each individual and family group's spending and saving budgets.
The New World Government guaranteed a stable world economy and social structure. Everyone would be given everything they needed including a job. The people did not see that the structure of the government was no longer by the people and for the people, but was run by a small group of wealthy and powerful industrialists whose first agenda item was their own power and wealth.
The changes snowballed quickly. Under the New World Government free trade and competition in business were eliminated. Thereby providing the world with one of everything: one car manufacturer, one news source, one entertainment provider, one medical company and so on.
By the spring of 2000 order and stability had been realized throughout the world by the NWG. And everyone had a job, but not everyone was happy.
This story is about some of those unhappy people who found through their struggle for change what truly matters.
Thursday 6p.m. November 2, 2000
The white clouds scattered about the sky catch the final rays of light and turn an orangish pink as the last children ride their bicycles into cluttered garages. The automatic doors slam shut. Nobody is on the sidewalks as it is the quiet time of day just before supper. Everyone sits around the table in their chairs, chit chatting of their day. It is a perfect time to run the test. Scotty wheels his 1982 Chevy Malibu slowly into the nice brick suburb, coming to a quiet stop along side a 1950's ranch style.
It is almost dark so Scotty gets out his binoculars, turning on the infrared light. Then he glances in his rear view mirror: no cars, no people. He reaches over and unlocks his glove box, carefully extracting a small plastic rectangle, which houses two silver toggle switches. He flips both switches on. The two sets of tiny lights above each toggle flash red and green, red and green. When both stay green the circuits are ready. He focuses the binoculars on the three-foot high rectangle protruding from the ground. It is the local circuits telephone box, a repairman's box.
Suddenly a quiet car passes by startling Scotty, "It must have come out a side street." But the car keeps driving, up two streets and turns left.
Scotty looks around at the entire neighborhood and then at the patch of grass at the base of the repairman's phone switch box. He pushes the 'ON' button located beside the two toggle switches on his electronic destruction device. After both lights above the toggle switches turn red, he stares through the binoculars at the patch of green beside the repairman's box. A few minutes later a black smoke seeps up, wrapping itself around the repair box, lasting a good three minutes.
Scotty gets nervous, "I didn't realize it was going to take quite that long." He glances around the neighborhood and into the mirrors. Nobody; everybody is still inside. He downs his window, "ZZZZZZ." Ear out the window, he doesn't hear anything. He glances back at the repair box. The smoke is gone and so is the last of the sunlight. He looks closely at the box through the infrared binoculars; only a small patch of green grass right beside the repairman's box has turned dark. He looks over at his destruction switches; both lights have gone from red to flashing red and green. He offs the switches and the button, then puts the gadget back into the glove box. Binoculars back in their case, he looks around the neighborhood one last time before starting the engine. He pulls slowly away, disappearing into the night.
Abiding by all the road signs, staying under the speed limit and not seeing any policeman dispels his nervousness excitement. By the time Scotty rolls into his driveway he is pretty sure he has gotten away with it. He chuckles, "All the years of planning and preparation have finally gone up in smoke."
Safely hidden behind his garage doors Scotty offs the engine and then leans back remembering. Remembering that fifteen years ago he went to his first anti-government meeting. Many months of quiet conversation passed before he finally agreed to be a member of 7L. They said, "We won't do anything unless we have to. We're like the National Guard. Some people call us militants and radicals, but we're a National Guard of freedom fighters. Society has to have its freedom fighters because history shows that power corrupts and that the corrupt are very powerful. The corrupt always take more and more of everybody else's rights and freedoms."
Scotty knew that; he had studied history. He knew what the human was like. So he became a member just in case some day society needed to be jolted, to be shaken because the corrupt powers that be had gotten out of hand. He thought that the 7L had a good idea and a good plan, "Not destruction, but constructive disruption." Yes that was the idea that turned his mind; he had been a committed member ever since. They weren't going to kill or hurt nor even threaten anyone. They were just going to disrupt the people's communication system. "A little disruption in their communication lines so they can't use their phones for a while. A day or two of inconvenience will get them talking to their representatives. That will put some pressure on their congressmen."
After becoming a member he had been sent to a mountain retreat for two weeks during his summer vacation. A large bearded man who called himself "Seven" taught him wiring, electronics and painting. When he got home all he had to do was fix up an old truck, then at his leisure during lunch hours, drive around and place acid-bombs at the base of suburban telephone repair boxes. And that is what he had done. Painted the same color as the telephone trucks, a few strips and some magnetic signs had transformed his truck into a telephone repairman's truck.
Pulling up beside a repairman's box then putting his repairman's curtains around it, was a chancy feeling his first few times out. But he had on his hat, he had on his uniform, he had his repairman's truck. He looked like a typical telephone repairman. And in his mind he was a telephone repairman. He knew it was going to be chancy. "There is always some risk," his teacher Seven had taught him.
It went well; it went easy, no problems. None of the neighborhood people ever came out to talk to him. He set up his curtain, he went inside and he opened up the repair box. Then very quickly he dug a hole just big enough for the destruction-acid-box to be placed right at the base of the repair box, right next to all those cheap little telephone wires. Then very quickly he covered the hole, patted down the dirt and replaced the hunk of grass sod so no one could ever tell he had been there. Tools back in the box, curtain down and driving the truck away; in and out in fifteen minutes was not bad. Even if a neighbor had called the Phone Company to check on him, he would have been done and gone. But no one ever called; most everyone was at work. The few housewives at home were feeding their faces or feeding their babies' or watching their favorite soap operas. Anyone who happened to look out the window or drive by while Scotty was on hand would see just a normal telephone repair truck.
During ten years time he had planted over one hundred destruction acid-bombs. And not once had someone stopped him. Not once had a policeman asked him what he was doing. And not once had another telephone repair truck stopped by while he planted his bombs. Scotty lived beyond the city limits in a rural area far from the curious eyesight of any neighbors. Making it easy for him to drive his fake telephone truck in and out of his garage. In fact the only time he ever used that truck was for planting telephone acid-bombs.
Scotty got out of the truck chuckling, "Har har har. Easy to plant, easy to blow. Just be within fifty feet of the box and flip the radio wave switches. And in less than ten seconds the acids mix and melt the plastic coated copper wires into one ball of noise. The black smoke swirls while I disappear into the dark. So easy. Setting off the rest will be just as easy."
Scotty takes the magnetic telephone truck signs off the doors, hiding them away in storage drawers, "It won't take them too long to fix once they dig up the right box. It will only disrupt the neighborhood for a few days. But that's the whole idea: just a little disruption in the normal citizen's communication system."
Garage doors bolted he goes into the kitchen. Takes out a phone book and begins dialing phone numbers from the neighborhood he had just sabotaged. He dials twenty numbers during the next two hours. The recorded message is the same for each: "Buzz Buzz Buss. Sorry this number is not working at this time. Buzz Buzz Buzz." His first acid-bomb has worked; he chuckles. Then opens the icebox and pops the top of a can of beer. Then ons the small TV on the counter to see if anything has been reported.
At midnight Scotty sends a coded message to Seven: Completed. Thirty minutes later he receives his next instruction: Wait.
Looking back across time
at the neighborhood while Scotty is watching the black smoke curl and the patch of grass turn dark, is Shelia Jones talking on her princess telephone to her science partner, Maryanne. For the first few moments after the phone goes dead Shelia thinks that Maryanne is playing a prank. But then she comes to the conclusion, "Something must have happened to the phone because it sounds strange. It's, it's totally silent, no cracks or pops or buzzes," so she hangs-up. Then redials Maryanne's phone number. She puts the phone back to her ear: no ringing, no busy signals. She hears more silence so she hangs-up again. This time she puts the phone to her ear, realizing there isn't a dial tone she begins yelling, "Dad! Dad! Dad! There's something wrong with this stupid phone. I was talking to Maryanne about our science project and it just went dead. Like dead silent. You've got to fix it. Fit it right now!"
Sitting in his soft chair, reading the newspaper and waiting for supper, "Well okay dear. The phone, right."
"Dad! Dad! Dad! Something is wrong with this phone. You got to fix it, fix it. Fix it right now." Shelia slams the phone, "Me and Maryanne got to get our science done for school."
Shelia's dad isn't getting up from his easy chair. Realizing that, she runs from her room into his den and shakes the newspaper loose from his hands, "Didn't you hear me. The telephone is dead. I've got to talk to Maryanne right now. We got a science project due. We got to get it done. We got plans, we got experiments. Don't you want me to get good grades? Come on. Fix the phone dad!"
Smiling into her jestful eyes, "Yes dear. Yes dear. I'll get up and fix the phone as soon as I finish this article." Pointing to the desk phone, "Try that one over there, maybe it's working."
Shelia drops the newspaper and bounces to the desk, "Oh yea I forgot you had one in here." She picks up the receiver. "No dad, it's dead too. No dial tone, no busy tone. It's dead."
"Well maybe something is wrong with the line. Maybe a telephone pole broke or something," he raises up a few inches from the chair and leans toward the window, looking at the window lights across the lawn. "Go next door and use Curtis's phone. John Curtis is in your grade, isn't here?"
"Yea dad but he's so eeooyee." Shelia scrunches up her nose and jiggles her wrist limp.
He raises an eyebrow in the what-does-that-mean look, "You want to talk to Maryanne don't you. Maybe their phone is working. You want to finish your science project, don't you?"
Shelia leans forward to spy the lit Curtis window and nods her head a yes, bumping into her dad's head. She pulls back, "Yea I guess so, but he's so eeooyee."
Rubbing the bump on his forehead, "Just knock on their front door and say how our phone is dead. Ask if you can use theirs to call the Phone Company. Then call Maryanne. You can do that, can't you dear?"
"Yes dad. But if that John comes near me, I'll, I'll, I'll just faint." Shelia feigns a swoon.
Chiding her a grin, "Oh you girls are so predictable. Just like your mother was. Go on. Go report the dead phone." He leans forward and kisses her forehead, "Go on with you. Get."
Shelia smiles, "Yes dad."
At the Curtis' front door Shelia knocks, tap tap tap, "Hi Mrs. Curtis. Is John here? Can I use your phone? Mine's dead. I was talking to Maryanne. We got this science project due and the phone just went dead. It's dead. Really dead. Can I use your phone to call Maryanne back please? Is John here, is he doing his project?"
Mrs. Curtis steps back making a pathway for Shelia, "Hi Shelia. Yes John is here. I don't know about science. He's in his room. I'll get him. You can use the phone in the kitchen. Come on in."
Shelia follows her through the hallway, glancing at Mr. Curtis sitting in his den clipping his toenails over a newspaper. Mrs. Curtis points at the canary yellow wall phone in the kitchen. Smiling, Shelia follows the trail to the phone, grabbing off the receiver. Mrs. Curtis then goes to the stairs, calling out, "John. John. Shelia is here. Are you doing your science? Come on down to the kitchen. Meanwhile Shelia tries the phone and finds that it is not working.
Looking back across time
at the neighborhood while Scotty is watching the black smoke curl and the patch of grass turn dark, is Charles and Mrs. Ina two doors down from Mr. Brown. Mrs. Ina has finished her supper and is about to make social chitchat with her mother-in-law on the phone. The two women always discuss the only male in the house, Charles. The topic again is his lack of ambition. Mrs. Ina complains that he has been at the same job for ten years and not once has received a raise. In fact he refuses to even broach the subject with his boss.
And every month when she pays the bills she calls out the same compliant, "There's something else we can't do." And Charles repeats his response, "Oh? What's that dear?" She waves a thin paycheck stub at him, "Your pay is the same, but the bills get larger each month." Mrs. Ina has been saying this to her husband every month for the past two years. And she has been calling-up her mother-in-law, saying the same thing to her, hoping to get her lazy husband's mother to get her lazy son to ask for a raise.
But not this month for the phone is dead, no dial tone. She hangs-up and pushes the buttons; nothing. She hangs-up and pushes the buttons again, still no dial tone. Mrs. Ina is not happy; she is missing her monthly grip. She goes into the front room and turns off the television.
Now Charles is not happy; he's been watching the news. "Hay the sports are on, what are you doing!"
Mrs. Ina lowers her forehead, speaking more to his feet than to his ears, "Ah look Charles. The phone is not working and I have to call your mother. She is expecting me to call her. She depends on me to call her. Do you want to drive over there every month or do you want me to call her on the phone?"
Charles flexes his shoeless socks, "Ah, well. It is rather far to drive and expensive. Calling her on the phone is a better idea."
Her lowered head slow bobs from left to right, "That's what I am trying to tell you Charles. The phone is not working. There's something wrong with the phone and your mother is expecting me to call right now."
Charles flexes his socks again, reaching forward he scratches the bottom of his right foot, "What do you mean there's something wrong with the phone? Did you hang it up and try again?"
She raises her head level, "Come see for yourself Charles. The phone is not working."
So Charles gets up from his easy chair and follows her into the den. She points to the receiver on the desk and he picks it up and puts it to his ear: silence. "You are right dear, the phone is not working. Report it to the Phone Company tomorrow."
Mrs. Ina raises her head to the ceiling then slowly lowers to eye level, "Look Charles. The phone is not working. How am I to call the Phone Company tomorrow?"
Charles screnches his eye brows, purses his lips, then stutters, "Ah well, ah." He walks over to the window, pointing at a lit window across the yard, he continues, "Ah well, it's not late yet. Why don't you go over to Mr. Brown's and report our phone."
Mrs. Ina shakes her head, "No Charles. I don't get along with Mr. Brown. We don't ever talk or anything. You get along with him, you go over there and report our phone."
"But dear, the sports are on," rolling his eyes in mild protest.
"Look Charles do you want me to call your mom or what?" both hands resting on her wide hips.
Charles nods a silent resolve and walks toward his front door, "I'll go see if I can use his phone. Guess I could give mom a call from there too." He stops at the door, hesitates, then turns back to face her square, "Say. Aren't you friendly with any of these neighborhood women? Can't you use one of their phones to call mom?"
Mrs. Ina lowers her head again, "Well I guess I could go down to Enus's house." She raises her head level, "That's an idea. You go over to Mr. Brown's. See if his phone is working. I'll go to Enus's."
Charles nods his head affirmative, turns and exits the front door. Mrs. Ina puts on her coat, grabs her purse and exits through the still open front door.
Looking back across time
at the neighborhood while Scotty is watching the black smoke curl and the patch of grass turn dark, is Mr. Brown who resides opposite the Curtis family. Mr. Brown decides he wants a pizza for supper so he gets on the telephone, but no dial tone. He hangs-up then picks it up again, but still no dial tone. He's not too happy; he wants a pizza. "Ah ya! I guess I got drive to go to get one." Slowly Mr. Brown gets up from his recliner, "Now where are those car keys?" He walks around pushing loose papers about the cabinet counters and on the table. Finally the tingle of keys surfaces. Downing his hat and coat and he slowly heads out his front door.
Just as Mr. Brown is leaving his house for pizza, Charles and Mrs. Ina are walking out their front door. Meanwhile Shelia and John, hand-in-hand, are leaving his kitchen via the side door to go back to her house to view her science project. So in the final moments of the sunlight, these five neighbors are on their front lawns staring at each other. After a long awkward silence suddenly they all start talking at once. "Does your phone work? Mine went dead, I've got this science project to do. Well I've just got to call his mother. Look, I just want to watch the sports, does anyone's phone work around here? What happened?"
Charles and Mr. Brown point to the houses on the right and Mrs. Ina points left and Shelia and John run down the middle of the street muttering rampantly of, "Neat. A mystery. Yea cool dude." The next hour is spent with neighbors knocking on doors and chatting of the broken phones. Some get frantic and drive off to find a working payphone while others just shake their heads and say, "Wait till tomorrow."
Friday 7a.m. November 3, 2000
Jane is sitting at her breakfast table reading the newspaper comics. "That's not funny, but it does remind me," Jane picks-up the phone: no dial tone. She flicks the receiver button a few times, but still no dial tone. She cocks her head, "Hmmm." She gets up and grabs her bathrobe from the back of the couch, arranging it around her shoulders as she walks to the apartment door. Door unlocked and open, she steps across the hall to do her special knock on her neighbor's door.
A perky blond smile soon greets her, "What's the scoop?"
"Hi Maggie, my phone's dead. Yours?" Jane's hand gestures at her ear.
The blond shrugs, "It went dead last night. Let me check it again." She turns and quicks to her desk. Pulling out the small chair, she lifts the receiver. Putting it to her ear, she sits on the chair. "Still silence. I wanted Chinese last night about 8:30, but no go with this thing." Lifting a list of names and phone numbers, "I've got calls to make. Wonder what's up?"
Shrugging her shoulders, Jane spins away from the doorway, "Guess I'll find out at work. Later."
Back in her bedroom, she dresses for work. White blouse, blue denim skirt and red patent leather shoes, tying a soft yellow sweater about her neck she reaches for an umbrella. Hesitates, looks out the window, cocks her head skyward, then slips the umbrella into her extra wide carrying bag. Quick pausing at the clock mirror on the wall she runs a brush through her hair, "Is that the right time? Better hurry, can't miss the bus again."
At the bottom of the hallway stairs four wall mailboxes are mounted in between the inter and outer doors. Her box is the closest to the outer doors and is usually blocked by the wide open outer doors when she comes home, so she picks up her mail on the way to work, using the bus ride time to scan over it. More often than not, she has a few items of Maggiemay's in amoungst her mail.
The morning rush hour has become much quieter under the New World Government. There are fewer and fewer privately owned cars driving the streets as the higher and higher fuel prices finally curbed even the wealthy to ride the free commuter buses. Every half an hour a bus goes left and one goes right. The New World Government has legislatively encouraged everyone to live within twelve miles of their work. The further a citizen lives from work the greater the percentage of wages that goes into the individual's retirement account; lowering spendable income. The Government also credits the individuals' retirement account each time a commuter bus is ridden.
Listening at the bus stop Jane soon learns from the other waiting commuters that their phones were dead too. Some of the neighbors had gone to the police, but theirs were out too. And so were five square blocks of the neighborhood. No one had any answers. The group slowly turned toward Jane with inquiring faces.
Jane just shrugged, "Mine's out too," then looked back at her pile of mail. Within minutes Jane is on an air-conditioned commuter bus looking out the window at the changing house types on her way to work. Houses, apartments, small businesses, large warehouses and then the 15 to 20 story office buildings pass before her dreamy eyes before her bus stop.
Between 8 and 9a.m. the downtown area still bustles with traffic. The noisy diesel trucks sit surrounding the delivery docks blinking yellow signals. The commuter busses make fast stops unloading the day's workers. Top executives still flaunt their positions by driving in from the distant suburbs to park in the skyscraper basement lots. And the sidewalks seem constantly full of people walking and disappearing into corner cafes and side entranceways.
Jane rides the shoulder to shoulder elevator up to her floor ever vigilant to not be shoved onto the wrong floor. She is on the staff level of the Freedom Times. As the doors open she spies her editor's secretary waving. She ignores her, going straight to her desk.
The small square speaker beside her desk phone squeals on, "Jane, Mr. Thompson want's you in his office now!" Sarah yells over the newspaper's intercom.
Jane wonders what her boss wants now, but figures it's her latest article as she weaves a narrow path through the desks filled with mounds of penciled notes and typewritten half pages held gingerly in place by heavy black phones. "Good morning Sarah. What's the mood?" pointing to the head of gray behind the glass door.
Her focus upon the nail file sliding across a fingertip, the secretary replies, "Not much different from every other day."
Jane cracks a half grin at her, pushing the heavy door open.
Gesturing her to the only chair free of clutter, her editor and chief smiles warmly, "Jane, you know that I love you like a daughter. In fact, ever since I lost Terri and Charles, you are the closest thing to family I have." Perry raises the loose papers from his desk, waving them at her, "But you have to stop this. The NWG is not going to tolerate this editorial in your column and you are going to make matters difficult for yourself. You are only fifteen years away from retirement and you cannot afford to lose your benefits from the paper." Rifling through the loose pages in an ancient three tiered in-box, Perry jerks one toward her, "And I was just sent an e-notice that you have over spent your allotment again. One more time and I am going to have to reduce your pay."
Jane grabs the loose papers from him, glances at the title 'No Taxes, No Representation!' then begins rattling the pages at him, "But Perry, people do not understand. They believe the propaganda. They are treated like sheep. Told how to budget, what to buy, where to shop, where to live, what to eat, and what to wear. They have no rights because they pay no taxes. That's all the column asks the reader to question." Then she flops down in the chair staring, imploring his support.
Perry soft chuckles, "Are we going to have a Boston Tea party in Cyber-Space? I don't think so." The paper's editor, Perry Thompson, lost his savings in the bank like so many others when Y2K Pulse crashed. The only thing he has left is the newspaper's retirement account that he started when he joined in 1978 at the age of 25. And that only guarantees him a small apartment somewhere along the beach in Daytona where he can watch the tide role in and out. Now, at the age of 55, he is dangerously close to reaching the New World Government's mandatory retirement age of 60, and he does not want to lose what little he has left as a result of the NWG's wrath.
Jane tries to bring to the readers' attention just how bad it is before it becomes irrevocable. Jane tries to get her readers to see that they are living in George Orwell's 1984, but she is constantly being censored by bureaucrats who work through her beloved boss, Perry. Jane tries to get him to see how close to complete subservience the masses have become. But with his retirement so near, getting him to listen is as hard as reaching the masses who are no longer saddled with the stress of living paycheck to paycheck.
Perry shrugs his shoulders, tilts his head to the right and says numbly, "The masses don't care any more. They remember that horrible day of January 1, 2000 when they woke up destitute and without a job. They remember standing in food lines all winter until the NWG rescued them. They have work, food and money, that's what they care about." Whereupon, Jane shrieks, jumps up and begins fast pacing in front of his desk, slamming her fist into her palm and finger pointing at him, "Right now people are little better than pawns for the government. This New World Government is not filled with wrestlers in clown makeup, it is filled with the very corporate people we vilified less than a decade ago." Leaning back in his chair Perry sighs, smiles and remembers that this is the same Jane, the young reporter that came running into his office some fifteen years ago after fighting with her desk editor who refused to see the big picture and take the Y2K problem seriously. Perry had chuckled at her enthusiasm and suggested that she begin a column, her first break from staff hack to columnist.
After the Y2K Pulse crash everyone was given a pay scale based on their career and where they personally fit on the BAC's wage scale. Jane was one of the lucky ones; her profession had been rated at the top of the scale but that had not changed her extravagant lifestyle. Being a single professional without children, the BAC rated her only as a six on the spending scale. Her monthly rent could not exceed $800 and her allowance for clothing did not include the recent purchase of a $145 pair of shoes. Her increased disposable income was not for lifestyle enhancements, but to be saved toward the day when she celebrated her sixtieth birthday. According to the charts and graphs of the BAC, she should have save enough money before retirement to live out her normal life span of 85 years. The goal of the BAC was to create self-reliant senior citizens that could live comfortably on retirement savings. It sounded good in theory, but she loves those shoes and now they would have to be returned.
Jane hates the BAC system and continues bemoaning loudly at Perry, "It's worse than when I was married to Carl and he cataloged every penny I spent on a yellow legal tablet. He also said it was for our retirement. Only Carl took our retirement moneys and left me with a pile of bills while he jetted to the Bahamas and elsewhere with an intern from his law firm." Perry sits up, holds his hand up in the Stop gesture and says, "That was before Y2K Pulse. And this is now. You didn't really need new shoes, did you? Bought them on a whim and now you have to return them. And you don't like that, do you? I don't either, but that's just the way life is now. You can't get even with the government, so don't try. Take that editorial and tone it down. Understand." Then he gestures her away.
Jane looks at the rumpled pages, "Oh all right. I'll return the shoes. I'll re-write this, but I don't have to like it." She turns with a huff and stamps her feet out the office, but doesn't slam the door.
At her desk she turns on her computer, opens up a desk drawer and extracts a folder marked: Current Assignment. She sets that on a small portable table. Takes a couple sips of yesterdays' cold coffee, makes a face at the cup then rifles through the loose notes and newspaper clippings in the folder. Sporting a look of, "I'm board with this and puzzled," she closes the folder. Looks then smiles over at her closest co-worker, Pat.
Pat is short for Patricia. Patricia's dad liked sports. Patricia's dad wanted a son to do sports with. So Patricia became Pat and learned how to play every sport. She learned all the rules, all the tactics, all the strategies ever used by the best in each sport. She majored in sports in high school. But during her junior year in college she began to realize that she just wasn't going to grow tall enough to play and earn money in the professional sports arena. She was muscular and fast, very fast at action and at chat, but five foot tall was not tall enough for any field. So Pat changed her major to journalism. Maybe she couldn't play professionally, but she certainly knew how to, so reporting on the play of the pros was her next best way to make a living.
Each morning Pat jogs the building stairwells. Wearing her gray sweat suit she has just flopped down in her desk chair and is panting for breath. Wiping her brow with a towel, she smiles back at Jane.
Jane sips some old coffee then asks Pat, "Have you heard anything suspicious about the telephone outage?"
Pat picks up her phone, "Mine is okay."
Jane shakes her head, "Jocks. No no, not here. At home, my phone and a few hundred others were out all night."
Pat says, "Oh that. Yea I heard a quickie on the TV this morning. It was on your side of town. They said it only lasted for 30 minutes."
Jane says, "That's not right. Mine was still out this morning. Maggie across the hall said hers was out at 8:30 last night."
Pat just smiles, "Looks as if you're hot on the scene of this fast breaking news item."
Jane turns lifting up her office phone and calls the Telephone Company. All they tell her is, "Mainframe shutdown, only lasted a few minutes. An override fuse blew and it took the maintenance men that long to find and repair it. Sorry for any inconvenience."
Jane interjects, "But my home phone is still out as is the entire Maple Street neighborhood."
The Phone Company spokesman knew nothing about any type of residence telephones being out in Jane's part of town. And if so, then Jane should report it to the repair number on her telephone bill.
The spokesman's denial makes Jane suspicious so she calls some of the people from around her neighborhood. Five phone attempts net still dead telephones. So now Jane is very suspicious and writes a short info note to herself and thumbtacks in on the small post-up board aside her computer screen.
Jane stares at the blank screen for a while, then reopens her assignment folder. She picks up the draft of her latest article. It's about the New World Government. It's a warning to her readers. Jane feels the New World Government has too much authority. Too much control over everyone's life and she thinks it is not a good idea for the World Congress to set forth one set of rules for everyone on the entire planet. Jane says that is exactly what the USA proposed to the New World Government. And that proposal is what the World Congress has been debating. Some of the small countries have been voicing their fears and concerns, stating that the rules that govern the behavior and distribution of goods of a highly industrial society, like America and UK and parts of Europe, couldn't and shouldn't apply to the behavior and distribution of goods for tribal nations in South America and South Africa or the mountain peoples in India and China.
And Jane agrees with the smaller country's criticisms. But she is sort of afraid to say it because the majority of the representatives of the World Congress are aligning with the major industrial nations, which argue that, "We can stabilize the world economy and improve the quality of life for everyone by consistent savings. While it is true the pay base and the prices are different, the same percentage of pay could be saved world wide today. It is the percentage of what a person saves that should be the same everywhere. And as for as behavior and rules of conduct are concerned, that should be the same for every human worldwide, be it mountains or the dessert or in high rise apartments. The way humans treat one another should be uniform."
Some of the smaller nations disagree, citing major differences in historical traditions and superstitions and religions. Adding that even the environment plays an important factor.
Yet the industrialists say "No no. We all treat each other the same. Superstitions and where a person lives should have nothing to do with if you are nice or mean to the people around you. We do not want different sets of rules. When our citizens visit other countries, they should never be subjugated to archaic superstitions or bizarre irrational ideals. Everyone will be the same and do the same and think the same."
Jane thinks that, "All for one and one for all," sounds good, but she is also partial to the divergent cultural differences position. And she is not sure which religion is right and which is wrong and to pick one over the other is not rational either. And maybe there shouldn't be just one religion or any religion. Maybe there should be different religions. Maybe it is not suppose to be the same for everybody. Jane is pretty afraid to say all those things in actual print for her readers to see. But she is less afraid since meeting Dale over the Internet. His emails supporting her past positions have strengthened her confidence.
Jane closes the folder on her pending new editorial. She opens a side drawer then pulls out a folder marked 'Emails - Dale'. Jane notes the date of his first message is only a week prior. "Amazing how much more confidant I now feel." She begins re-reading Dale's emails.
` Dale identified himself as a computer programmer for the Diacom Corp. He began by saying how he had finally decided to make contact with Jane, hopefully to begin a dialogue with her. He, an avid reader, liked most of her opinions. But felt she could have been stronger against the Government in earlier articles. Especially the Y2K warnings in the early 1990's. Being a programmer, he knew the seriousness of the Y2K and had been hired by the Diacom Corporation to make sure the company was ready for the new millennium.
Dale supported her opinion that the Government had not taken the economic repercussions of the Y2K problem seriously. They had not begun correcting important computer systems soon enough, especially the monetary programs. He complimented her early warning attempts to her reading public and was sure her efforts had helped some of the public prepare so not to be completely devastated. That was the main jest of his first email message to her.
He followed up with a second email of the problems he had with the Diacom Company. The difficulty he had in trying to make his supervisors listen to his warnings because the Government had not been wary of the Y2K problem until reports like hers began showing up in the newspapers. He concluded his message by stating how he had gone over his immediate supervisor's head. He had sent a report directly to the vice-president on the costs to the company in delays and hinted at what repair programming might cost the company if they were to wait until something broke because of the Y2K problem. That waiting for a mal-function instead of doing corrective programming was not the type of business philosophy he had hired on to follow and so he might have to resign. The long and the short of it was that his concerns were taken seriously and he was put in charge of correcting and preparing for any type of Y2K problem. He concluded his email by saying, "See Jane, sometimes you just have to follow your instincts and your convictions. And it all will work out for you too, even though some goody two shoe Government geek might shake a no-no finger at you."
His third email addressed another one of Jane's early warning editorials. He felt that her warning of the Y2K problem caused the banking industry to begin saying, "Yes. When the date changes to 2000 the computers won't understand and consequently might not send out checks or bills." And how the banking system had begun to hire programmers just to correct the bank's computers. Dale remembered that it was that editorial of hers that had solidly convenienced his supervisors that the Y2K was a major problem. And so he was given his own office and staff of assistants and a promotion. So again he was thanking her for speaking out when she, did even when it was still a chancy thing to go against or make headlines with problems before getting an okay from big brother.
Jane closes the folder of Dale's emails, sliding it back in the drawer. She ons her computer and dials the Diacom home page onto her screen. She then sends a reporter's inquiry to their Public Relations Department. And quickly learns of Dale's company history with the Diacom Corp. Satisfied that Dale is on the level, highly intelligent and likely to be sincere in his comments to her, she sends her first email to him.
She thanks him for his compliments and criticisms of her editorials. Responding to reader fans is how Jane has built-up her many contacts over the years as a reporter. Having a loyal focus group was necessary to verify all types of information and obtain initial feedback on some of her more sensitive editorial ideas before going into print. So Jane's email to Dale says simply, "I appreciate your opinion and thanks for your support of my position. What are you currently working on for the Diacom Corp?"
She decides to go a step further and see what he thinks of her current editorial in progress, asking him, Are you aware of the current issue the World Congress is debating and do you have an opinion." This inquiry is double edged; she finds out if he follows world issues and if he has an opinion; keeping her views quiet. If his opinion is similar to hers, then she will feel very justified in her own discord with the USA's position.
It is the end of the workday and Dale is sitting in his office, feet up on the corner and is smiling at the words Jane has in her first email to him. He is very pleased with the questions. He already knows that she has done a preliminary inquiry on him thorough the company. In response to Jane's questions Dale states, "I'm still a computer programmer for Diacom. After Y2K Pulse, I criticized, distrusted and disliked having to write programs allowing the New World Government to monitor all Diacom employee pay and savings plans. But when the USA President informed all businesses they did have to comply, I was assigned to write the new monitoring programs for Diacom."
Dale decides not to tell her that he is currently writing monitoring programs for the New World Government. Programs that will monitor all the people, all the businesses, and all the banks. Only the head of the Diacom Corp, who also sits on the New World Government, knows that. All Dale is going to say about his job is, "Basically I am bored. All I do now is run tests on the Diacom programs to make sure they are complying with the Government requirements."
In answer to Jane's question about his personal political views of the World Congress, "Yes I've been watching the Congress. It's one way of anticipating any new program changes the Government might require of Diacom. I try to stay a step ahead." Concerning my personal views, "The Diacom Corp allows its employees to have personal views, as long as they keep them to themselves. Political opinions, views and criticisms are not allowed at the office. Considering that Big Brother has cyber-specs-on I can say no more."
Jane knew full well what he meant. Cyber-specs-on was the catch phrase of the masses, meaning the Government is watching. When the New World Government began it promised, "Everyone will have a job. No unemployment, no welfare." It wasn't just a promise, they made it happen. The Government hired, trained and retrained people to install cameras, repair, or monitor computers. All the new monitoring programs required daily reports. So no matter where you were or what you were doing, someone was watching and making reports. Then the reports had to be read and if necessary some one had to make an investigation. The television camera monitors had not been allowed in the home yet, but Jane was afraid that too was only a few years away; certainly the masses would protest that invasion, wouldn't they?
The New World Government had promised everyone would have a job and that promise they soon fulfilled. For weeks right after the Y2K Pulse problem occurred there were long bread lines. Nearly everyone had to stand in line most of the day just to have food to eat. That lasted until the New World Government began hiring and training for the monitor programs. No one complained about the work or if some television camera was pointed at them for they remembered those boring bread lines. The population was happy to be back at work and to have money to spend. So the masses had become opiated and weren't going to take Jane's or anyone's editorials of doom and gloom very seriously.
Dale's email also said, "Yes I have been monitoring the World Congress debates. And it's my opinion that the same set of rules for everyone throughout the world is stupid. And couldn't possibly work." He wasn't that well traveled but he had seen many of the 1990's National Geographic stories about the world's diverse cultures. "I know there are many small tribes through the world whose behavior and religious practices have been the same for hundreds and hundreds of years. And to think that those peoples could change or would want to change to a set of rules designed for modern man, is a ludicrous extremist's idea." And he didn't mind telling anyone that. Because he knew he was informed and right.
He did think that an equal percentage of pay saved by everyone, no matter if the wage was $10 or $100 per day, made logical sense and it was a good idea. As long as the percentage saved and spent of the day's wage was the same for everyone, it wouldn't matter. But he also thought, "To say that someday everyone will receive the same wage and pay the same price no matter where you are in the world, well I can't see that happening. The old tariffs were designed to keep the rich people from taking advantage of products made cheaply because of low wages. But the rich still buy it cheap then ship it here and charge more than the costs so they can have more profit than anyone else. If the New World Government makes all the prices the same, the rich won't be able to take advantage of anyone. But I really don't think the New World Government is going to change human behavior that much or that quickly. I don't think the rich people want to relinquish being rich. And how could they pay their percentage of property taxes, especially on expensive property, like near the ocean and large buildings and houses. They almost have to have large income. That seems like a problem the World Congress has not addressed yet. A topic for a future editorials?"
Jane responded on the next day to Dale. Sending him and early morning email, "Thank you for your opinion. I appreciate all my readers' opinions. You needn't worry; I won't print anything without first getting permission. And yes I do happen to agree that the same rules for everyone worldwide won't work; it is a stupid idea. Though I do think that the same wage for everyone through out the world seems to be have merit, but I'll have to do more research before working that idea into an editorial. Thanks for the suggestion."
Dale responded the next day around noon. He thanked her for writing back so soon. And thanked her for being security consciousness, "I'd appreciate not being named as a source of a controversial idea. I'd have to worry about the repercussions at work. We were specifically told by the Diacom Corp that all employees were forbidden to divulge to the media any personal opinion. We can have opinions, but can not publicly state such opinions while employed by the Diacom Corp."
Dale then asked Jane what types of research she did before printing controversial topics. Did she have some type of anonymous focus group or did the newspaper staff just talk amoungst themselves? "If the focus group is anonymous I would like to be considered for such a group. For I am an informed man and I feel it is a citizen's duty to offer informed opinions on the serious topics that affect us. For example I feel that the current World Congress topic on equal wages for all workers of the world would truly make "all men equal. That should be a World Congress goal."
In fact Scotty of the 7L group had received his first Acid Bomb GO order after the World Congress discussion on the merits of equal pay for all workers. The wealthy industrial countries had agreed in principal that all workers should receive the same wage for the same work, but not yet. The USA representative stated that, "Someday, way off into the future the world will be ready for equal pay and equal prices, but not yet." The USA tabled and postponed the topic until a lengthy economic study could be done. It was after that stalling tactic that the 7L group decided to begin testing their acid bombs. There seemed no better topic to launch their protest campaign upon.
Jane's response to Dale was, "Yes I have an anonymous focus group. They read my draft editorials and then I check their reactions before doing a final draft for my editor to read. I also read the unsolicited emails that are sent to other staff members concerning the reactions of the world public. Many people from all over the world send-in emails daily. In fact most of my controversial editorial opinions were aligned with a high percentage of the emails."
She stated that she would consider putting him into her focus group. But he should know first off that, "If I was really pressed by the Government to name the people in my focus group, I would. I really don't want to, I would stall them, but the New World Government is bigger and badder than any political group ever formed. The public defender system no longer works. The police gather evidence, point their fat finger and the accused has a trial then goes to jail. Everyone knows the police don't accuse a person unless they're 95% probably right. And I am not going to spend the rest of my life in a jail over some controversial opinion because opinions change every day."
Jane and her chief followed the rational that if the Government ever came down hard on them about one of their controversial topics, they would just point to the statistical opinion of the focus group, "See, we just printed what they felt. We print what the majority feels."
She suggested to Dale that, "If you are worried about being officially in the focus group, instead just send me anonymous snail-mail opinions. Even though the focus group majority opinion guides my final draft, I don't think you should jeopardize your job to be a part of the focus group."
Dale immediately responded, "I would like to be part of your focus group, but I am worried. Losing my job and/or being thrown into jail because of an opinion does not seem too smart. So I'll follow your suggestion and just send-in anonymous snail-mail opinions."
Later that day Dale sent Jane another email, "Hope you don't mind, but I have done some investigation. I found a photo of you in the Diacom library archives. I think you were very attractive and slender. The photo was seven years ago and I was wondering if you still have the same hairstyle. It was very flattering and appealing."
But Jane was so flustered and embarrassed by his personal comments, that her response was quite curt, "Office emails are political, not the personal."
Dale sent her an apology email in the morning, "Sorry I slipped into the personal. But I did really like that hairstyle in your college photo. You are attractive. I honestly feel that. You are attractive and intelligent and youthful and probably are already married or have a steady boyfriend. I forgot you are in a position of respect and power and over stepped the boundaries of professionalism. Please allow me to apologize."
Having monitored her computer, he shifted to her next editorial topic, The world is not one village. Dale added to his apology, "The main reason I don't like the New World Government is because the people of the planet are not the same everywhere. The cause of the differences vary; some could never be changed. They go beyond politics, religions, traditions or fades. I remember a behavioral study; the question was: Is it the environment or genetic programming that affects productivity and creativity? Put an energetic race of supermen and women in a tropical climate and they get as little accomplished as the sweaty browns. So does world topography and climate make for differences in creativity and work drive? Or, some humans can't even make a pot to pee in, true or false?"
Jane closes Dale's email folder thinking, "Maybe I'm being a little hard on this guy. Similar political views, intelligent, responsible position. Wonder what he looks like?" She punches up the Research Window, then requests: Photograph/ Dale Tallechio/ Diacom Corporation. Within thirty seconds she has a color photo printout in her hands.
Is it the reporter's nose or woman's curiosity; Jane isn't sure as she studies the photograph of Dale in Diacom's newsletter with its words of praise for solving its Y2K problem. She sees that he is an attractive male, about her age, so her email response is, "Normally I make a practice of keeping all office email interactions on the professional level. But you and I have progressed beyond the usual email commentaries. Our opinions are similar. I feel we are becoming friends so I don't mind being somewhat personal, cyber-specs-on. So I am not offended by your compliments. And no, not married yet, still single. Because of work schedules and the political changes I haven't found, wasn't time, ah, well marriage just hasn't happened yet." Then she re-looks at his photo and his email of personal compliments and thinks, "Well maybe the time is right, maybe if you play your cards right." She shudders some, looks nervously about the office, but no one is paying attention to her, so she sends Dale the email.
Jane comes out of her thoughts and glances over at Pat, who is staring blanking at the half-filled page of paper dangling over the roller of her antique manual typewriter. Pat likes the old fashioned way of finger hammering the newspaper columns on her old typewriter. She says that the pounding of the keys into the paper and the clanking of the bell at the end of a line is soothing, helps her creativity. Adding, "I may be forced to use the modern computer for final set up, but when it comes to the actual creative process of first draft, I prefer the ringing of the bell and the pounding of the keys on the hard cylinder." Having the longest employment record and a stack of completed columns that reaches the ceiling, keeps her editors and fellow workers quiet. Instead of complaints about the noisy machine, most say, "Quaint, authentic old-fashioned newspaper work." Since most of staff has learned on the old manual bell ringers, they say, "The 'ding' at the end of a line signifies work done. It's inspiring. Keep pounding those keys, we've got a deadline to meet".
Jane looks over at Pat. Coughs some to catch her attention then rolls her desk chair over to have a woman to woman chat with Pat. "Are you really happy being married and being a full time worker?"
Pat pauses with questioning curiosity, "Yes. I like working, the activity, the satisfaction, and the extra money. I have something new to talk about at the diner table. I'd really be bored being home alone every day. We are never bored. We are happy this way. Why are you asking this? What's in your mind? Is there someone new in your life? Well dish."
At this point Jane decides to confide in her female co-worker. "Well yes I have met someone. A guy, a computer programmer. Well we haven't met, not face to face. He started sending me emails last week. He is sort of a fan; he's been reading my column for a long time. I guess because of what's happening in the congress. These New World Government big brother ideas finally prompted him to speak out. To send me emails. He said I'm the first person he has ever written to voice his personal opinions about our government. He said he liked my views and felt he could trust me, that my opinions seemed honest and genuine, so he started sending me emails. He is an informed man, works for Diacom. I wrote him back, asking him if he wanted to be in the focus group. He declined, but that's how it started."
Eyes wide, Pat leans forward, "Do tell girlfriend. Have you met him?"
Jane shakes a quick, "No, it's just email."
Pat continues, "If you don't know what he looks like, how can you be falling for him?"
Jane blushes, "Well I researched a photo of him in his company newsletter."
Pat gasps, "Ahh really! Let me, let me see!" her fingers waving in Jane's face.
Jane carefully pulls a newspaper photo from her shirt pocket and hands it forward.
Pat teases, "You carry it with you, right next to your heart, so romantic." Taking the photo gingerly, she brings it slowly closer to her face, "My, he is a pretty one. And about your age, very attractive. Well you guys ought to get together for drinks or something."
Jane reaches forward taking the photo back and stares at it, "You know I don't even know where he lives. I really hadn't thought about it before. Yet we seem to have so much in common. At least politically. You know, I don't even know if he's married. He asked me if I was married."
Pat interjects, "Sounds like he is interested. Did he ask anything else personal like?"
Jane leans even closer, "He said he had his Research look up my college photo, liked my hair style." She winks an eyebrow and pushes one side of her hair back over her ear.
Pat leans back, "Cute. See he is interested in more than just your mind. Well, my oh my. You go for it girl. Get yourself a life. There's more to being alive than just this office and the story."
Jane sits up erect, "But the new congress is dangerous, the people have to be told what big brother is up to."
Pat coughs into her hand, points up at a corner camera, "Big brother. There's always been a big brother doing something to someone somewhere and nobody could do anything about it. You take all that government stuff too seriously. Getting yourself all worked up into a tizzy over some dumb old foggy politicians. You've told the people plenty. People got jobs now, they got food, they're happy. You aign't getting any younger. You deserve a personal life. Maybe even get lucky and fall in love."
Jane hems and haws then says, "Well maybe you're right. My life could use a little romance."
Pat smiles nodding her head, "Now you're getting the big picture. Love, romance, happiness. You're a woman, you've got needs. Remember a happy worker is a productive worker. Remember that, hee hee."
A new email from Dale pops onto her computer. So Jane rolls back to her desk. "I'm surprised that you are still single. I guess you just haven't met the right person yet. Maybe there's just been too much distance between you and your soul mate."
Jane continues to gaze at his words. She listens to her thoughts, "Maybe Pat does have a good idea. He is attractive, intelligent and agrees with my opinions. Maybe keeping a dialogue going is a good idea." So Jane begins a new email to Dale, telling him about the phone company computer shutdown. "They said it was only a 'computer glitch'. And they denied knowing of any problems in my neighborhood. Then they told me to make a repair report if my phone was out then abruptly hung up. But I know in fact there are three or four streets still without phone service. Have you heard anything about the incident?"
After reading her query, Dale decides it is time to push a bit more. He responds, "Yes something did happen to the phones around Maple Street last night. You should contact the Maple Street repair crew. They are on the job right now. I might have some further notes of interest for you but not over the e-lines, you know big brother has cyber-specs-on. If you happen to have interest, maybe we could meet somewhere for dinner or lunch?" He hits SEND.
Still at her desk reading over his past emails, Jane is startled at the incoming buzz. She clicks on the email and quick reads the screen. Her girlish smile flashes then frowns, "He must think me a twit. Why didn't I think to contact the repair department?"
Jane immediately calls the phone company repair department. When she asks about the repairs being made on Maple Street she is told, "This office takes calls for repairs to be made. I can not give out information about where repair crews are working." Jane gets frustrated, "Look I'm a reporter for the Free Press and the public has a right to know when their phones will be fixed." But again she is told, "Sorry madame, that is confidential information. And the Free Press is not on our Need-to-Know list." Jane hangs up in anger, "How can I do my job if they won't tell me anything? Besides don't they have to tell the public when their phones will be repaired. It is a public phone company, isn't it? The government doesn't control that too, does it?" Jane glances around waiting for someone to answer her, but everyone is busy with their own jobs.
Jane decides to go to the repair site and see for herself. She grabs her bag and quicks to the elevator, calling to Pat, "Maple Street, phone repairs." She slides through the closing doors as Pat flips a goodbye wave to her.
On the street a bus is paused at the stop just long enough for Jane to quick in. She takes a vacant seat and uses the ride time to make question notes for the phone repairmen. Passing a block from her own apartment she thinks, "I'll just walk home to write up my notes and the story, if there is one."
A phone company repair truck is at the far end of the block from where the bus lets her out, so she decides to knock on a few doors. Jane is talking to a silver haired housecoat and pointing at the phone truck when she sees two men in dark business suits exit the repair curtain carrying a large bag. They stand rigid for a long moment, then briskly walk across the street to a long black town car. They disappear within the dark windows as Jane wonders, "F.B.I.?"
Flashing her NEWS ID at the open doors gives her an earful of information for the retired and elderly are more than happy to have someone to chat with. Soon a half a dozen people have verified that their phones went dead around dusk and were still silent. Nearer the repair truck she learns that it had arrived promptly at 9 a.m. The protective curtain kept the curious eyes empty but the nearer neighbors could hear the busy work sounds, "Yea there's a couple phone men in there. They been banging and clanking and cussing all morning."
At the phone repair box the curtain is open wide enough for the men to come and go easily. As Jane nears the open curtain one of the men steps out carrying a bundle of dangling multi-colored wires. He turns toward the truck holding the wires close for visual inspection, muttering, "Sure got all burnt together somehow." He doesn't notice her approach.
Jane leans forward to see inside the curtain. There is small pile of dirt; the repair box is lying on its side; and a roll of new phone wire and tiny strands of blacken phone wire lay all about the ground. A crewman is sitting on a small foldout chair splicing new wires, cutting off the ruined old wires. They look burnt and shriveled. The helper repairman returns from the truck and faces Jane.
Silently surveying the site she decides not to identify her self, rather she says, "Are you going to have these fixed today. Am I going to be able to call my mom? She's expecting me to call."
The repairman looks inside the curtain then back at her, "Yes mame, I'm pretty sure we are going to be done today. It's going to take a while longer; there are a lot of wires to be replaced. Should be done sometime today, that is, if we don't have too many disruptions and distractions. All those school kids sure had a lot of question this morning."
Jane bends down, picks up of a blacken strand, "Why this wire looks burnt. How in the world could that have happened?"
The repairman says, "You're right about that. They're burned all right. I aign't just sure how that happened. I just don't know mame. Maybe lightning hit it. Maybe a truck rolled over the box. Or some freak kinda ground lightning or static electricity." He returns his vision to his co-worker splicing off the burnt and then matching the new color-coded wires.
"Burnt? Static electricity? Ground lightning?" Jane sort of scratches her head, "I don't know about all that. This doesn't look like an accident. This looks deliberate. Maybe some neighborhood boy did a prank. We didn't have any lightning; I just live a few blocks over. And I don't see any down pole wires."
Shuffling his work boots over snipped wires, the repairman stares at the dark car windows across the street, "Well mame, I just don't know. I'm not supposed to know. It's just our job to fix em'. To get your telephone turned back on. Isn't that what you want; your telephone turned back on? Do you mind moving on and letting me get back to my work?"
Jane looks over at the dark windows of the long black car, "Well I'm sorry. You're right. Let you get back to your work." She turns and walks away, jotting notes onto her pad. At the far end of the block a bus stops and she gets onto it without slowing her walking stride. She plops down in a vacant seat, then looks out the window to see the long black car drive away. She mutters, "Two to one that was the F.B.I.." She works on her notes as the bus takes her back to her downtown office.
At her desk she sends another email to Dale, "A most curious thing. I went out to the neighborhood. Phone repairmen were there and the old phone lines were laying all about the ground. Burned and frazzled. Like flame or electricity had burned them. One repairman said he didn't know and guessed some kind of ground lightning. I'm thinking that maybe somebody has done something. This almost looks like a prank. Got any ideas?"
Dale reads over her burnt wire prank notion and thinks that maybe it is time to get something going with her. He sends, "Yes I do have some ideas. There are some people. This contact I have, an old college chum. And he might be willing to talk about that, but certainly not over the e-lines. Maybe you might want to meet somewhere and talk about this a little more. If you really want to follow up this story, I think I can get my contact to meet us."
Jane gets this email and thinks, "This is curious. Too coincidental. Those wires were burnt, somebody did that. Not lightning, not last night. Those were burnt and not run over by some truck. This has the makings of a story." Jane pushes back from her desk and goes into her editor's office.
Jane tells Perry of the dead local phone lines, the lack of co-operative information from the phone company, going to the repair site and seeing the burnt wires and of her new email contact who just happens to know someone who might know about the burnt wires. But they won't talk public, only private. Jane tells Perry how Dale also happens to have strong criticisms against the New World Government.
Perry leans back in his easy chair, "So the phone company isn't talking, burnt wires and you know some computer geek who knows someone who knows something," he chuckles, "and wants a meeting. Probably in some dark and secluded place. This all does sound like some kind of story. You say this contact works for Diacom. Maybe he does know something. Might be worth meeting him. Just don't blow this up into some anti-government conspiracy. Keep it a phone company repair story. How maybe the Phone Company no longer will divulge information. Now that's a story we could print, no problem."
Jane walks back to her desk battling with her thoughts. Should she meet Dale? Just how should it go? How personal to let it go? Maybe there really wasn't anything to the phones going out. Maybe she was just using the dead phones as a means to get involved with Dale. Maybe he was doing the same thing to her. Maybe they both were just lonely and reaching out to each other. She concludes, "Maybe I better just sleep on this. Enough for one day."
As Jane leaves the office Pat calls over, "You'd better not let this one get away, you're not getting any younger."
Jane waves her, "Yea yea yea. I'll think about it."
Pat grins, "Wait too long and the big fish will find a different pond to feed in."
Jane shakes her head toward the ceiling, "Jocks!"
A quick elevator down, bump and be pushed out the doors to the bus stop for a shoulder to shoulder wait. Then quick onto the bus and plop down in a window seat to watch the buildings and people flit by. This daily routine had become so refined by the downtown commuters that out-of-state visitors felt they were watching a polished Broadway dance skit.
When the seat behind the bus driver vacates, Jane quicks to it for bus drivers are one of her favorite sources of gossip and information. Many commuters love to spend their ride home chatting of the day's events within their office to the strangers on the bus. So much you can say to a stranger about your world of family and co-workers that you can not say to anyone else. The bus drivers' drive and listen, filling their ears with information that Jane's newspaper has been paying for since long before her employ. Today Jane just drops a quick directive, "Ears open about the Phone Company's new tight mouth policy." The driver just nods a silent, "Understood".
Back at Jane's apartment she finds an email from Dale waiting for her. Asking of her day, if she learned anything from the work crews? If the F.B.I. had been there? The reference to the F.B.I. makes her sputter suspiciously, "How could he know that? Maybe he really does have a contact that is in the know. Maybe there is some real reason why the Phone Company won't tell me anything. Maybe I'd better go back to being a reporter on this and not some school girl swooner."
The email that she sends him says, "Yes there were two men in dark suits that were talking to the repairmen. When I got close they went into their dark window car and just sort of watched while I spoke to the repairman. He was sort of nervous and cautious and wouldn't tell me anything other than it was his job to fix the lines and not figure out how they got burnt. 'Maybe lightning hit it' was the only possible explanation he would offer. And that's not real because there were no storms. Those wires were definitely burnt, but the Phone Company denied that anything serious had happened. And they said they were not going to tell the news media anything. I'd like to know more; so yes I'd like to meet with you and your contact.
After the meeting maybe we could discuss some of our other mutual topics of interest. Maybe you could amplify on the wage/price and tariff issue. I have no idea where you live. I just know where you work. Is a meeting possible?" She sits staring at the screen after SEND, hoping he reads and responds immediately.
But Dale is in the process of going from work to home. After stopping by a café for a quiet supper he takes in a mystery movie. Back at his home, he ons the computer to read, "Is a meeting possible?" Smiling, "I wonder if she'll like Aunt June's beach house?" Dale emails Jane. Telling her how his contact will only meet them at a beach setting because the government has not installed the monitors there. A daily train stops there so they could meet in the park. Dale mentions how he would also like to chat with her about their other mutual ideas. That after his contact leaves, she and he could chat in the local café over apple pie and coffee. He takes a chance and mentions, "Maybe you and I are two soul mates who haven't had that chance to meet yet. We owe it to ourselves to find out." He suggests they meet on Sunday; a weekend outing so no one will be suspicious of their traveling.
Saturday 10am November 4, 2000
The next morning, after her wake-up routine of exercise tape, shower, toast and the TV news, Jane checks her email. Dale's beach meeting message excites her at first but then her reporter side takes over. Caution warns, "Wait a minute this could be dangerous. I've never actually met this guy, certainly his contact might be. This could be trouble, I'd better talk this outing over with Perry."
At the newspaper she goes directly into his office, closes the door and says, "Boy, have I got a story for you."
Perry listens to her plans and her fears, then adds, "I had this shaky feeling until you said you were to meet in PARKIT. I grew up there. I go back for Christmas each year. The Chief of Police is one of my best friends. I'll give him a call. He'll keep an eye on you.
We'll wire you. Put a tiny microphone on you, we'll hear everything. If the situation turns ugly or dangerous, the local police will be right there. This way if nothing bad happens, we'll have the exclusive story. And we'll have kept the cops and big brother out of the newspaper's face. And no trouble for your friend or his contact."
Jane nods approving, "I like that idea."
Perry pushes an intercom button, static, "Jane is coming down for a mini-mic. You guys fix her up pronto." More static, "Got just the thing boss." Perry hits the button and silence.
Jane smiles, "What if he asks me or they search me for it?"
Perry tilts his head, "Be honest. You're a girl reporter and your boss is scarred for your safety. If they don't want to talk, fine, thank them and walk away. But they're contacting us, so I think talking is just what they want. Free advertising for some left-wing politicals, that's what I really think they are up to. Remember Jane, honesty is always the best policy," pointing at the ceiling.
Jane smiles, "Your right of course. I feel better now. You'll be here listening the whole time?"
Perry rolls his eyes, "Of course. Can't afford to lose my best editorial writer."
Jane gets up, "Well okay." She reaches forward and shakes his hand as if sealing some bargain between them.
Down in the equipment department a young woman helps Jane fasten a miniature microphone-sending unit to the front underside of her bra. Looking into a mirror, "I can't see it at all. Amazing, so small. You sure this thing will work that far away?" The woman says, "As long as you stay within a half mile of the police receiver, we'll be able to hear every word, grunt or moan you two make. There is no turning it off so watch what you say or do."
She returns to her desk and sends Dale an email. "I'd love to meet with you at the park on Sunday. What time?"
Dale immediately responds, "How's noon for you?"
Jane replies, "High noon it is. Come rain or shine?"
And Dale simply answers, "Umbrella".
CHAPTER TWO Love American Style
Jane is very excited about the meeting with Dale at the beach park, about the possible beginning of a romance. She wants to talk to Pat about it, but Pat has left the office on assignment. Jane doesn't feel close enough to any of the other co-workers so she returns to her desk. Where she spends the rest of the day researching and rewriting her commentary of the World Congress equal wage/price stall. At five o'clock she takes the commuter bus home.
Standing before her apartment door, Jane takes her hand off the knob and does a slow turn to face her neighbor's door. She steps across the wide hall, closes her fingers into a fist and, "Knock, knock, knock."
A faint, "Just a minute, just a minute."
More, "Knock, knock, knock," of Jane's impatience.
"Who is it who is it? What? What? What?" Maggiemay flings the door open. "Oh it's you! Quick come in. They're going to kiss. I'm sure they're going to kiss today. I just know it," she calls over her shoulder as she races back to the sofa facing the flickering television. "I've just got to see it. Help yourself to some drinks," pointing and waving toward the kitchen as she excitedly bounces upon the cushions.
Jane can barely understand her banter; she is talking fast teen-gibberish. Maggiemay's face only inches from the screen. "It's just the television, I should have known," and Jane shakes her head, "soap opera." She walks closer to the television, but can't see past the head of hair. She reaches over the sofa and pulls Maggiemay's shoulder backward, "Not so close, you'll burn out your eye sockets. And I can't see a thing!"
A timely commercial breaks Maggiemay's trance. She sits back, "Sorry Jane, I'm really hooked on this one. Been watching for months. I think they're gonna do it." She grins and crosses her legs, hugs her self then kisses a couch pillow, "Ahhhh, love sweet love, take me my darling."
Jane shakes her head again, "Soap opera junkie. You really are hooked. It's you that needs to get a life. A real life, not this fake TV junk. Well what are we watching?"
Maggiemay dials down the volume, "It's new. It's more like a mini series than a soap opera. Revolves around the action of the New World Congress political people. A different cast of characters every couple of weeks instead of the usual cast of actors year-in and year-out. It's a bunch of new stories every few weeks. It was sort of hard to follow for a while. Now I sort of kinda like it. And now Bob and sweetheart Alice, they've been friends about a week now. I think they're going to kiss. I think this is the moment their romance is going to begin," pointing to the silent screen.
Jane mutters softly, "Friends a week, romance about to begin, politics, congress. Sounds familiar somehow. The new media world group does this show, do they?"
"Schooose, quiet, its back," finger infront of her lips, Maggiemay waves for Jane to sit.
Jane says, "Well, ah, I'm going to get myself a beer." As she is pushing the utensils about the junk drawer, she is thinking, "This is just too coincidental. I stop in to talk about Dale and she is watching a TV soap that has the same story line as my life does this very day. Could big brother be making a soap opera based on my life? Monitoring my every movement and putting it on TV for the world to see. They wouldn't, couldn't do anything so cold and mean and intrusive."
She finally fishes out the bottle opener and pops a top, quick guzzling it empty. "Well maybe, you know, might be the government is monitoring me. They could be, they monitor others, probably are watching me this very minute. I guess I really am a prime candidate. Critiquing them in print for the world to see. Maybe they're just getting even. Disguising my personal life as a soap opera. But no one has ever contacted the newspaper, no official reprimand, Perry has never said a word, just be careful what I write. No warnings or threats in the mail or on the phone. Never seen anyone following me. I guess they could be monitoring me. I do report on controversial topics. But my romance, my budding romance, would they put that on the TV as entertainment. Well it would be cheaper than hiring someone to write one from scratch. They are pretty sneaky and it sounds like a typical government operation."
Jane takes another cold beer from the icebox and pops the top and quick guzzles it empty. "Oh what am I saying. Just listen to me, carrying on like a detective novelist. I need a day off. Careful ol' gal, you're on the edge again." She puts the opener back in the drawer and the empty bottle back in the icebox. Muttering, "It's not possible, is it," she walks back to the TV room. When she returns there is a commercial on, "Well did they kiss?"
Maggiemay turns from the screen frowning, "No. Not yet durn it. You know how the TV is, always building the suspense up. They want you glued to the tube. Don't want you to miss a minute of their damn commercials."
Jane sits on the arm of the sofa, "Yea gotta buy their products if you want to see the romance. So this new one has you hooked. Pretty good huh? What's it about?"
Maggiemay proceeds to tell her, "The girl is an office geek, works all the time. Her name is Alice. She works for Livecom. Her soon to be lover, Bob, is reporter doing a story on duplicating machines. They met because her office was upgrading their monitoring program for photo-copies so to comply with the new government regulations and Bob was interviewing the repair crew."
Jane interjects, "This is so strange. Just too strange. Last week I made friends with this computer nerd. He fixes Diacom's monitoring programs and I report stories. We met over the Internet; we've been chatting emails. We have similar philosophies. And we are going to meet this weekend at the beach."
Maggiemay gets all excited, "Romance! A real romance. You going to do the bed-n-breakfast?"
"No no. A picnic in at a beach park."
"Isn't that the modern way of saying 'bed-n-breakfast?" widening her eyebrows.
Defiant hands on her hips, "Well I don't know what the moderns call it. We're really just going to meet face to face for the first time."
"A picnic in a public park. Sounds nice, safe and yet also romantic. Stay loose, maybe you'll get lucky. Better take some protection. You do know about protection, don't you Jane? Say how long has it been anyway?" glancing from Jane to the television.
Jane blushes, "Yes I know about protection. We are just meeting for the first time. I wouldn't do anything even if I felt like doing anything." Jane adds, "Don't you think this a little coincidental? The sitcom you're watching is almost identical to my life."
Maggiemay, "No no. The girl is not a reporter, the guy is. It's not a newspaper; he works for a magazine. See, it's different. It's not the same."
"Well no it's not exactly the same. They couldn't do that. But it seems awfully much the same. A girl computer nerd. A guy writer. That's what Dale and I are. He's a computer nerd and I'm a writer. See, it's almost the same."
Maggiemay bats her eyes, "Oh his name is Dale, how masculine. Do you know what he looks like, have you met him yet?" her eyes averting to the television with every other word.
Jane claps her hands three times, "No no no. You aren't listening. You're watching that stupid television. Over the Net. We chat email over the Internet. I have a news-clipping photo of him and he has a copy of my graduation photo. We are going to meet face to face for the first time this weekend."
"You've been talking on the Internet. And he has a picture of you and you have his. And now you're going to meet for the first time at a park. See I was listening, I can do two things at once. I'm no dummy," glaring.
"I'm sorry Maggie, I didn't mean that. It's just not polite to watch the television when someone is talking to you. Especially when I'm pouring my heart out to you. I'm scarred and confused and not sure what's going on and you're staring at the stupid government vision. And they're putting my life on a soap opera and I can't do a thing about it. Nobody can." Jane drops her face into her hands.
"Okay okay. You're right. Calm down." Maggiemay lowers the volume.
Jane says, "No don't do that; I should wait till it's over. I intruded into your house. The shows important to you."
Maggiemay waves to be quiet, "No no. You are right; the television people aren't important, real people are. Friends are, neighbors are. Besides the show's almost over. Now let's get back to your problem. You've got a new man in your life and you two are going to meet. Romance or friendship, you're not sure. Is that about it?"
"Well, yea, that's why I stopped in. But that show on television is just like my life." Jane's mouth is hung open, her finger pointing at the quiet tube.
Maggiemay stands up and grabs Jane's shoulders and guides her to a chair, "Sit down, be quiet a minute, catch your breathe. Forget that television, that's not important. Maybe they are watching you, maybe not. What you do is what is important. You met a new guy. You like his looks?"
Jane nods a yes.
"You like what he said in the emails?"
Jane nods a yes.
"Your single, he's single?"
Jane nods a yes.
"You two are actually going to meet at a park near the beach?"
Jane nods a yes.
"Just you and him. Sounds like a nice place to begin a romance, doesn't it?"
Jane nods a yes.
"Well my advice is to take a picnic basket of food and some protection just in case and let nature take its course. Kapish?"
Jane nods a yes, "And a blanket?"
Maggiemay nods, "Yes, a big blanket. Put the blanket at the bottom of the basket so it doesn't seem to obvious."
Jane nods a yes, "I know just the blanket, soft and pretty, it's been sitting on the shelf for such a long time. Do you have a big picnic basket?"
"Oh yes, a big picnic basket," Maggiemay grins, "I was a young girl once myself and picnics never go out of style." She hops off the couch and skips to her bedroom closet.
Jane looks down at the television. The commercials are over and Alice and Bob are standing very close.
Bob says, "You have the darkest eyes I've ever seen. They seem to be pulling me within. I don't think I can resist. I don't think I want to resist."
The camera pans to Alice's face, "Oh Bob, Oh Bob." She opens her lips softly, "Oh Bob. Come inside my…"
Right then Bob kisses her.
Jane is mesmerized, leaning closer and closer to the television screen. Her gradual decent is stopped by Magggiemay's outcry, "I found it." Jane quick offs the television and walks to the bedroom muttering, "It's no wonder so many people get hooked on those soaps."
"Ahhyeaaahhh", cuts the silence as loose boxes fall about Maggiemay.
Jane hurries in to see her sitting on the floor surrounded by an assortment of cardboard shapes and sweater colors, "You all right?"
"Here it is," turning the wicker basket about in her hands, "Good as new. Nice and big, see."
Jane retrieves the basket, "Thanks Mag. You need some help?"
"Na. Been meaning to clean out this mess anyway. I'll be done by the time you get back. That is, unless you two run off to some desert island," she grabs up a box and pretends to kiss it, "Oh Bob, oh Bob, oh Bob."
"Oh you big tease! I'm out of here," turns and leaves. As Maggiemay belly laughs about the floor, Jane pauses a look at the television.
Maggiemay calls forth, "What happened to Bob and Alice, did they kiss?"
"Yes. Yes they did."
"Oh durn it. Missed it. Well what are they doing now?" pushing boxes about the floor.
Candlelight lets Jane see their fingers unbuttoning their shirts while soft music times their motion. Jane blinks her eyes, shakes her head and hurries to the door. Hand on the knob she calls back, "Maggie you have to see it to believe it." She hurries through the door, "I've got my own life to live."
Sunday noon November 5, 2000
Jane gets off the bus carrying an overnight bag in her left and the large wicker picnic basket in her right. She walks over to the commuter train platform and puts her ID credit card in the slot and punches the destination button. A little green approved light flashes. She puts the credit card back in its slot in her wallet as a ticket marked PARKIT slowly rolls from the ticket machine to her waiting fingers.
When the next commuter train screeches to a stop, Jane carefully steps up and into the nearly empty coach. She spies an empty booth four seats back. Sitting the bag and basket opposite, she stretches her legs on her seat so to face the window view and avoid the wondering glances of the half dozen occupants. Jane wants a quiet, private ride to the beach. She wants to review the past days and recall his emails. She wants to savor these moments and to let the anticipation build. She doesn't want idle chitchat with strangers.
More than just a woman on her way to meet a fantasy man; she is a reporter on the hunt for facts for her telephone story. She has to keep herself in balance. Jane takes out her notepad and begins to number the questions that Dale must answer.
How does the informer know? Fact or conjecture? Conspiracy, rebellion, terrorist gang, co-incidental opportunist? Is the informant just in the know or an active participant? If it's an organized gang, what do they want? Limelight, money, political changes? That's what Jane hoped for, some way to slip back to the days before the NWG. It was that hope of change that gave her the courage to be on the train to a secret meeting with a possible terrorist. It was one thing to sit in the safety of her office and write anti-government protests and warnings; it was a scary thing to soon be meeting the beginnings of a rebellion. Jane kept reminding herself, "I am a professional reporter. I am doing my job. Research and report."
Jane looks over her notes, erases and rewrites a few words. Satisfied with her progress she puts the pad back in her bag. Then she slides over to the window and stares at the passing houses. Soon the vegetation replaces the square boxes people call homes.
When the trees thin and the distance of the farmlands fills her eyes, the woman in Jane replaces the reporter and she begins to wonder of Dale, the man who had been sending her such nice emails. "Is he really as cute as that old company newsphoto? He wouldn't lie about being single would he? And just where does he live? Is the solitude of the beach for the political safety or romance?" She shivers, then quick glances about the car, "Anyone looking at me?" Her focus stops on the back of a man's head, "That's a familiar shape. Could Dale actually be on this train? He could be, couldn't he? But that would spoil the romance of first meeting on the beach, wouldn't it?"
She tries to shake her thoughts clear. She looks out the train window and watches the scenery change from rural country to very wide spaces of farmland. Trees, creaks, a few ancient wooden telephone poles, and the highways she can see hold very little traffic. Very few cars or buses, just a spattering of semi-trucks carrying their precious cargoes to the next store; just like in the city. The days of traffic jams are gone; the NWG fixed that too by putting such super high taxes on owning cars and miles driven.
She wonders how people can live so far away from the big city. She wonders if they are bored. She wonders if she would like living in such a place, but she doubts that. She is too connected to the hustle and bustle of changing activities, the stories, the street cafes and restaurants, movies and plays. She doesn't spend as much now, but she can still wander the isles and window shop. Soon her eyes shut and she falls into a nap of buying dresses, hats and shoes.
Meanwhile Dale has arrived at his aunt's vacation beach house, parked his Diacom company car in the driveway and has walked down to the PARKIT shoreline. The slashing foam has marked its wet boundary so he sits upon the dry white sand. Quickly mesmerized by the ocean's vacant distance, he drifts through the thoughts of his past.
At that memory moment, the present jolted Dale from his memories with a cold ocean wave rolling up and onto his feet. He jumps and quick crawls backwards as the water foams toward his retreat. Satisfied with just a taste of his flesh the ocean inhales, leaving Dale brushing sand off his slacks.
The commuter train whistles its arrival at PARKIT and screaming metal sounds its gradual slowing to a stop. The conductor announces the arrival, "PARKIT. PARKIT. All out for PARKIT. Wake up you, time to go to PARKIT. Here we are at PARKIT. You have five minutes to get out, walk around or do your business."
The sun bounces rays of brilliant light off the conductor's brass buttons and into Jane's startled eyes. She sits erect, looks at the train's motionless, tugs his uniform pocket flap and asks, "Where are we?"
The conductor holds the train's arrival schedule before Jane's face. He points to: 1:17pm - PARKIT. Then he repeats his chore, "PARKIT. PARKIT. All out for PARKIT. Wake up you; time to go to PARKIT. Here we are at PARKIT. You have five minutes to get out, walk around or do your business."
Jane lets go of his coat, "Thank you sir". She stands, arranges the bag strap over her shoulder, then grabs the handle of the large picnic basket. She looks about the car to see that no one else is getting up, so she navigates herself through the narrow corridor. At the doorway, she angles her basket down the wide steps and onto the portable last step the stationmaster has placed on the platform for exiting.
Dale is easy to spot; he is the only man wearing a suit on the platform waving at her. In fact, he is the only person on the platform.
Jane is also easy to spot; she is the only female to get off the train. She puts the basket down and waves back to him; she recognizes his features.
Dale plays the gentleman role perfectly. He walks briskly to her, stops the appropriate viewing distance then extends a handshake and a smile.
Jane smiles back and matches his firm grasp.
Seconds later, their hands at their sides, they stand in that awkward initial silence.
Until he reaches forward, "Let me carry that for you. Lunch, isn't it?"
She hides a giggle, "Uh huh. Hungry?"
The heavy basket tilts him slightly, "I can hardly wait. What are we having?"
Looking around his shoulder, "You'll just have to wait. Which way's the park?"
"Follow me," turning toward the platform steps, "just a short block north."
As the new couple walks along the sidewalk toward the city park, an undercover deputy sheriff follows a mere ten feet back. His two-way radio receiver ear-jack cord protrudes nearly unnoticeable. "You are walking too close, back off. I can hear them clearly and it's cool. So back off some before he gets suspicious," sounds the Sheriff from his unmarked van sitting in the parking lot.
Pointing at the empty picnic tables, "The choice is yours."
Jane looks around; all the tables are empty. "Is your contact going to meet us here?"
"Oh. Sorry. He called me at the last minute and cancelled. There was no way to reach you, besides I really wanted to meet you in person. Hope you don't mind," his face flashing boyish charm.
"Well my editor will be slightly disappointed, they're paying for this. Did he tell you anything I can use?"
Nodding his head yes, then he pointed to a table, "That one has a barbecue pit; are we cooking today?"
Cracking an understanding grin, "We could warm the pie, if you really wanted to. But I don't have a lot of time today." She points to the most isolated table near the pond's edge and begins leading the way across the freshly cut lawn.
At the table Dale puts the basket down with a thud, "This thing gets heavy quick. Food to feed an army?"
"Well I wasn't just sure what you might want. Brought a little of everything for the traditional park lunch, according to Miss E. Post." She lifts the lid and takes out the Lenin tablecloth. Shaking it loose, "Grab an end." With the worn wood covered, she begins to set the plastic bowls about the center. "Being the middle of the work day, a bottle of mountain water and brewed Jamaican coffee."
Dale climbs over and onto the bench sit, "If you don't mind, I'll just have a taste of it all."
She smiles, "That will be fine, I can see for myself what you favor or not." Then from the depths of the basket she hands him a fork and spoon wrapped in a thick napkin.
All the milky containers are the same size. "Don't I even get a hint," furrowing his brow as his hand pauses briefly above each.
Jane just giggles, flipping her hair about her face.
Sweet and sour potato salad; strawberry Jell-O dotted with miniature marshmallows; cold fried chicken pieces; ham and Swiss cheese sandwiches; cucumber cubes; cherry tomatoes; black olives; large sour pickles; and apple pie, "So dear reader, which did he pick first?"
Once the empty bowls are back in the basket, Jane pours two cups of still warm coffee. After a few sips each, she takes out her reporter's note pad, "Back to business. What did your contact tell you of the phone outage? Was it deliberate?"
Dale puts his cup down and slowly looks about the park. Only some kids at the edge of the pond and the undercover deputy, who sits with his back to them two tables away. Dale leans close to her ear and whispers, "All that he said to me was, 'Strong acid melted those wires'."
Jane writes the five words onto the pad. She sits quietly reading and re-reading the short sentence, trying to divine every possible hidden meaning. Finally she burst, "I was right! Burnt wires." She looks at him, then back at her notepad. "What else? I need more. Acid? That couldn't have been an accident. Are you sure that's what he said?"
Dale nodded affirmatively.
"I need more. The paper needs more. The public needs to know what's going on. Can you set up another meeting?"
Dale shakes his head negatively, "I do not know how to reach him. He contacted me from a payphone and the background sounds seemed different each time."
"That sounds like he doesn't trust you. I thought you were college buddies?"
Dale nods yes, "He said he knew me from college. That was a very long time ago and I can't remember his voice. He could be anyone from back then. Or he could be lying, using me because of my position in Diacom."
"He could be using you? When did this begin?" slightly incredulous.
Dale scratches his chin, "He called me last week saying they were going to over-throw the new government. He asked if I was interested. I said sort of. He said 'good' and hung-up. He called again and said, 'Strong acid will melt the phone wires. Tell the news media.' Then he hung up before I could ask him what he was talking about. That's all I know. To tell the truth I really didn't believe him until all those phones went dead."
"So is he the only reason you contacted me?" impish grin.
Dale smiles, winks an eye, "Yes and no. I have been following your career for years like I said. Then that phone bomb thing happened and contacting you seemed like the natural action. You are a news reporter. You make the public's feelings known. You have commentaries of, 'This is wrong and that needs to be changed. You play such an important part in the checks and balances of maintaining our freedoms. Pointing out the freedoms that might be lost if the population doesn't get the leaders to change. To vote against the ideas that are only advantageous to the rich and powerful. Did I do wrong?" gesturing wonder with his hands.
"Well not exactly. The terrorist is using you because of your position and you are using me because of my position and I, in turn, am using you because of your position. You're in the middle of this story; we've made you a type of victim." She attempts to comfort him.
Dale suddenly sits righteously erect, "Guess I didn't see it that way," leaning close to her again, he continues in a softer voice, "You want to know the truth? I'm loving every minute of this picnic."
Jane sits back, looks carefully at his eyes, puts her notepad away, "And you know, so am I."
He notices the girlish blush on her cheeks, adding, "Oh I think we have had enough of this serious political discourse. Let's just enjoy the rest of this beautiful afternoon in this sunny park away from the bustle of our normal regular lives. Let's go over and check out the prices of the canoe rides. Let's walk around the park and see if the boys are catching any fish." He turns and looks at the kids sitting at the water's edge, bobbing their bamboo poles up and down.
"Okay. That is a good idea. I have had enough of this political talk for a while." She downs the remaining coffee, wipes the cup dry, and then puts it in the basket. She reaches to his cup and does the same.
Without words they both gather up an end of the tablecloth, folding it rectangular to fit the basket.
Her hand about the double handles, she asks, "Do you think we should take it along?"
Crunching up a negative lip, "Na. We're not going to walk that far. It'll be in sight. And besides, this looks like a safe little town. I do think you should carry your handbag though. You have valuables?"
Carefully putting the long strap over her shoulder, she nods, "Yea. I have my wallet IDs, cell phone and some money."
Leaving the basket on the bench they stroll shoulder to shoulder down the gradual slope to the water's edge.
Within earshot, Dale calls to the boys, "You having any luck?"
The tallest lad lifts his pole, exposing a barren hook, "Na, durn it, got my bait again." So he swivels the bobbing cork to his left hand, carefully fingering the hook around the pole. Then he reaches down into a coffee can and extracts a long fat earthworm.
The other boy squats to the ground. He rams the end of the pole into the mud, forcing it deep. His hand disappears under the water and within seconds he is quickly standing and lifting a stringer of caught fish for Dale eyes. Their tails make more noise upon the surface than their tiny bodies should, but the boy is proud of his catch and brags, "I got up enough for supper. Maw goin' be happy 'bout that. A few more an' we have breakfast." He drops the stringer back into the water.
The taller boy dangles the worm for Jane to see, "Yea. He's got the luck today. Keep taking my bait. Gonna stick this fat one. It aught ta get me a big bass." He slides the worm over the point and round the curve of the hook. He smunches the worm real tight, letting only a half-inch dangle off the point. Then he looses the hook and swings the pole toward the water. The lead weight extends the line to its furthest; plop, the cork bobs upon the murky surface.
Jane's mouth drapes open, "Eey-ow-o-yuck. The poor worm."
Dale begins laughing.
Over his shoulder the boy calls, "You folks don't mine bee-in quiet, do ya? Fish don't like talkin' much."
Dale grabs her hand, tugs her, "Come on, I'll race you to the canoe dock."
Jane quick sprints away from him and he never quite catches up to her. Each time he gets near enough he grab pinches her, "Gottcha worm." And she giggles a, "Eey-ow-oh," and jets away from his grasp.
About twenty feet from the dock, Dale lunges and misses and slip/rolls face first on the lawn, yelping as he falls, "Ahhhhhhh."
Jane glances back to see his head first slide, so she stops.
Dale sits up and Jane walks back to him, "You okay?"
"Yea. This grass is slippery," sliding his hands across the damp blades.
She sits down beside him just as the small boy jerks a large bluegill from the pond. The fish is flopping on the hook as the boy grabs it, calling loudly, "Hot damn, breakfast!" Jane and Dale turn to watch the boy carefully extract the hook.
The tallest boy takes the stringer of caught fish from the water and extends the metal end toward the bluegill. The boy lifts the gill and slides the fish onto the stringer; its metal end protrudes from its wide mouth. He holds the metal end and pushes the fish down the long stringer line until the fish are bunched together. The taller boy then lowers the caught fish back into the water.
Jane shudders, "Eey-ow-o-yuck, the poor fish. I never seen anybody do that. Guess I never really watched anybody fish before. You?"
Dale frowns, "Ah, well, no. I've seen 'em on TV and in the movies, people sitting in their boats with fishing poles in the water."
Jane cringes her shoulders, "It was that worm. Eey-ow-o-yuck. I wonder if that hurt the worm?"
Dale shrugs his shoulders, "What do I know about worms. I don't even know where worms come from."
She quick punches his shoulder and giggles, "Oh you silly. Worms come from the ground. They live in the ground. Haven't you ever seen a bird pulling a worm out of the grass? They carry them up to their nest to feed their babies."
Dale shrugs, "Ah well. I don't have time for watching what the birds do. I'm too busy working in the office. That Y2K kept me busy ten hours a day, six and seven days a week. There wasn't time to do much of anything. Certainly not watching birds or boys fishing."
Jane nods, "Yea I know busy. Me too, especially since the New World Government. But, but that worm. Did you see what that boy did to that poor worm?"
Dale shakes his head, "Girls," laughs and lays flat back on the lawn mocking her, "Eey-ow-o-yuck, the poor worm. Eey-ow-o-yuck, the poor fish."
She quick tickles his stomach and then jumps up, "To the canoe dock."
Dale is slow to get up and makes a half-hearted attempt to catch her.
They run across the dam and stop beside the canoe rental price list.
The undercover deputy sheriff slowly wanders behind them. As they are staring at the prices he walks past them and takes a bench seat near the dock railing. He takes a lunch sack from his pocket and begins throwing small pieces of bread to the gaggle of ducks below. The sheriff whispers through his ear-jack, "We've still got them in sight. Stay cool, don't crowd them."
Just then the young couple that had rented a canoe smashes into the old rubber tires hanging on the side of the dock. The girl laughs, "No driver's license for you young man." The boy swipes his paddle across the water backwards, wetting her face, "A lot you know. That was a perfect landing."
A dockhand appears from the side door of the rental office, cups his hands about his mouth and hollers, "Hay you two. Stop it. You trying to tip over?"
The boy twists to face him, "Sorry."
Standing aside the canoe, hands outstretched, "Alright. Paddles."
First the boy's, then the girl's paddle transfer from the canoe to the dockhand. Carefully placing them down on the dock at the front of the canoe, the burly man then points to the boy, "Tie-down rope."
The boy leans forward, grabbing the slender yellow line and pitches it up to the waiting hands. The girl also pitches her tie-down rope onto the dock. The dockhand pulls the canoe taunt against the dock tires.
Wearing a boyish grin, Dale turns to Jane, "That sure brings back some fun memories. Doesn't cost much. Want to take a spin around the pond with me?"
Jane says, "You know how to canoe?"
As his eyes dart out across the water, his chest expands with a deep breath of memory, "Sure. Back in college I was on the race team. All those hours sitting in the computer laboratory, I had to have a physical outlet. My dad used to say, 'Boy. You got to keep your body as fit as your mind. Strong body. Strong mind. Got to keep them in balance. Your body is what the girls see first off."
Squeezing his arm muscles, Jane giggles, "Smart man, that dad of yours." Then facing the price list, "Two fifty for a row boat. Two dollars for a canoe. A dollar extra for life jacket. You know how to swim, I guess?"
"Yea I know how to swim. But I'd still take a life jacket; that water looks pretty deep. It's been quite a few years since I was out on the water. Better to be on the safe side than the sorry." He turns to see the boy help his girl onto the dock, then to Jane, "Want to go? You know how to swim don't you?"
Nodding a quick yes, "I did some swimming in college too. But, I don't know. I don't feel like getting all wet and splashy. I've got a diner engagement downtown at six." Looking at her watch, "And the train back to the city comes in thirty minutes."
"Well if you don't want to, guess I won't either."
She notes his foot scuffling and his down turned lips, "Look here. If you want to canoe, go ahead. This is your day off too."
Eyes widening, his smile returns, "Yea, it is my day off. If you don't mind, I think I'll take a quick run to the shore and back." Pulling his wallet loose, "You sure you don't mind?"
Squeezing his arm muscles again, "Go on. Strong body, strong mind."
Dale walks over to the dockhand, his $2 extended, "I'll take one of those." Exchanging the paper for a paddle, "Just going to paddle to the shore and back. Skip the jacket, I was a lifeguard one summer."
After Dale has paddled away from the dock and has made two wide circles, Jane goes over to the dockhand, "I'll take the other paddle and a canoe. And I know how to swim. Please hold my purse for me"
The burly hands pocket her money then slip the purse strap over his shoulder. After helping her into a canoe, he extends her the paddle. Then he loosens the docking ropes, curling them into a tight circle, dropping both into their canoe ends.
Paddle firm against a tire, she pushes away from the dock. Immediately her paddle dips-out a large scope of water and she is thrust toward a watching and waiting Dale. A quick succession of left-handed then right-handed strokes puts her aside him, smiling, "Changed my mind."
He smiles back, "A woman's prerogative. By the way you look like you've sat in a canoe before."
"Sat? I'll show you sat." She leans forward extending the paddle, then pulls a deep fast stroke with her right. Shifting to her left, she takes another hard pull. A good ten feet ahead of him she faces him, "Five bucks, says I can get to the shore and back first." Gesturing the distance between them.
"Not fair, you've got a lead."
"Sure it is. You're the man, you've got the muscles, strong body, strong mind, college boy," giggling as she squeezes her own arm muscle.
Hammering the water, his paddle thrusts him toward her, "GO!"
Calling back over her shoulder, "Not fair, not fair. What happened to one, two, three?" Quickly she too paddles toward the far shoreline.
Side by side at the turn around, he takes the line closest to the shore. She puts her paddle on the front point of his canoe and pushes it toward the reeds just as he makes a deep stroke. His canoe sticks in the mud and her canoe does a quick 180 degree turn. By the time Dale maneuvers out of the mud, Jane has increased her lead by twenty feet. She is constantly looking over her shoulder and laughing, "College boy, college boy, come on college boy."
At the rubber tires, she quicks onto the dock and has the front tie-down rope secured before he crashes in the tires behind her. The burly dockhand calls loudly from the rental house, "You break it you buy it." Dale carefully climbs onto the dock and secures his canoe ropes. They turn in the paddles and she gets her purse back.
"You were right, that was fun," she squeezes his arm muscle again, "Weak body, weak mind?"
"Funny, very funny," he squeezes her arm muscle, "Pretty strong for a girl, must be all that typing. What'd you say we try a race back to the picnic table? Give me a chance to get my five bucks back?"
Jane breaks into a sprint yelling over her shoulder, "GO".
Dale is immediately running behind her muttering, "I can't believe it she did it again." He yells at her bouncing hair, "No fair, you cheated, no fair."
Laughing, "Ha ha ha. You'll never catch me college boy. Always sitting behind your computer."
Running as fast as he can, he is barely staying even with her. As they approach the picnic table she goes left and he goes right. As they round behind it, they reach out and grab each other's arm. That spins them into a circle, slowing them, but the angle and centrifugal force pulls them to the ground. Each land on their buttocks, then roll over and over until the lawn has absorbed all their motion.
Dale sits up, "Well you didn't get wet, but you did get a little dirty."
She sits up giggling, "He he he tee he. That was fun. Oh no! Grass stains on my new jeans." She scratches the limp blades off.
"You are on assignment, won't the newspaper pick up the cleaning costs on your expense account?" swiping the loose blades from his knees, he stands.
"What's that? A bad joke? Expense accounts were one of the first things to go when the New World Government took control over us." She too stands, brushing her jeans clean.
Dale responds, "Guess there is still some advantage in working for private industry." Looking at his watch, "Ten minutes before the train. Didn't you say you had some pie? I could do with a quick snack before heading back."
Jane goes over to the basket, opens the lid and extracts a container. Taking two cups and the thermos from the basket, she then fills their cups.
He reaches toward one and she slaps the back of his hand, "Didn't you learn any manners in college? You must wait until the hostess offers."
"Oh? More of Miss Emily P.?" inspecting the redness welting up on his hand.
The lid off, the knife cuts deftly across the top of the pie. She ladles it onto a napkin, "Or would you prefer a plate and fork?"
"Not necessary, this will be fine." He takes a large bite, chews, smiles and mouths, "Yummy!" Swallows, takes a sip of juice, then smiles, "Apple pie. Apple juice. Are you trying to tempt me, girly?"
Jane giggles, "Oh you big strong man, what ever are you talking about?"
He raises and eye brow, "Wasn't it Eve, way back when who made the first apple pie?" He takes another bite.
"Oh you silly. I'm pretty sure it was the tree of knowledge, not an apple tree," she smiles, sipping her cup of juice. She puts her foot on the bench and inspects the stain on her knee.
Dale swallows the pie and just stares at Jane's legs for a very long minute. Then he swallows again, "Maybe I could get those jeans cleaned for you on my exec-clothing."
"What's that?" her eyes noticing his stare.
Quick shaking his head and re-focusing on her face, he continues, "Executive clothing account. It's a perk, a minor loophole around the NWG rules on percentage of pay into saving. Diacom issues Special Safety Clothes for its executive level employees. The company owns and cleans the clothes."
Jane is putting the containers back in the basket. "We got to go. Walk and talk."
Dale looks at his watch, then up toward the train station. As his focus returns to the park he notes the undercover deputy sheriff has returned to the same picnic table near them. He grins, nods and silently thinks, "Probably a plain cop." He then grabs up the basket, "Better walk fast, might be early.'
Jane shoulders her purse and takes up the lead. After a few steps she returns to the topic, "Exec-clothes sounds like the military issue."
"Yea, I think that's where Accounting got the idea. The difference is, we get to pick them out at any store we want. And we get to keep them even after we leave the company. The company pays the store and the cleaners. So I could just throw your jeans in my cleaning basket. It was sort of my fault."
"Well it was your fault. Spinning me then letting go like that, throwing me to the ground. You dirtied my jeans. I probably would win in a court of law, if I were a mind to. Okay, I'll let you pick up the cleaning bill," she smiles warmly to him.
They cross the commuter train tracks just as the train sounds its unseen approach. Hidden by the park's tall trees the tracks curve into the heart of the small village. Standing near the train station, during the long pause of the whistle, Dale asks, "Well? Are you going to give me your jeans for the cleaners or not?"
Jane does a double take, "You mean now. Right now?"
"Well I have to drive the company car back, I could take them to the cleaners tonight and send them to your office tomorrow." Dale's face is deadpan serious.
Jane grins at him, "I can't tell if you are joking or sincere. And just what should I do for jeans on the ride back into the city? Or do you think going about naked won't be noticed?"
His hand quick to cover his mouth, "Naked. Did you say naked? I'm so embarrassed."
She slaps his arm, "You silly. You were making a joke, weren't you."
"Well I sort of was thinking you could doing something inventive with the table cloth. Sorry, I didn't really mean for you to ride naked. I guess I wasn't actually thinking. Maybe you can just send them to me at the company. Ah no, that's not too good of an idea." His face searching for a solution as the train screeches to a stop.
The trainmaster puts the portable step under the train steps, then calls loudly, "All aboard. All aboard."
Jane walks toward the train and Dale follows caring the basket. She stops at the portable step and faces him. "Thanks for the nice picnic. I'll just pay for the cleaning myself."
Dale nods, "Well okay, maybe that'll be easier all the way around." He scuffs his shoe about, then extends his hand, "I really had a very nice time. Thanks for making my day off so relaxing. Maybe we could do this again?"
"Yea I had a nice time too. I don't know about coming this far," she reaches forward and clasps his hand.
He squeezes her hand and pumps her arm a few times vigorously, "You're right, this is pretty far. It was the contact's idea. Maybe we could meet in the city. Do you like music? Maybe we could go to a night club?" Letting go, he transfers the picnic basket to her waiting hands.
She smiles, "Yea, I like music. I used to go to some night spots before I got busy at work."
"How about tomorrow? Supper at seven?" his eyes wide.
She shakes her head, "Maybe, but I've got to get this assignment going."
"Anyplace special you like?" grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
Just then the train whistles and the trainmaster motions for her to hurry and get on the train.
"Let me think about it. I'll email you. Okay?" she half smiles, hinting her acceptance.
He leans forward, as if to kiss her, stops short and says, "Email you tomorrow. Okay."
Jane turns and guides the basket up the steps and through the narrow corridor. She takes the first empty booth seat on the train station side. Then presses her face against the window to view Dale standing near the station.
The train jerks forward.
Dale waves once.
Jane waves back.
And then both just stare motionless as the train rolls away, "clickity clank, clickity clank," towards the city.
The Sheriff tells his undercover deputy's ear, "Stay cool, sit tight, keep reading. Just watch. If he goes to his car, let him go."
During the entire trip back Jane sits with this glazed smile on her face; occasionally she breaks into a small chuckle, remembering her day in the park. When the train reaches the city commuter bus depot she reluctantly leaves, pausing at the exit to look back at her seat by the window. But the moment her foot lands on the station concrete her face changes from the park's girlish wonder into the hardened world-wise reporter that she has become over the years. Glancing at the wristwatch, "Tomorrow is another day." she takes the bus ride to her apartment. The familiar landmarks continually reinforce her confidence.
Dale too is taken-in by the delightful afternoon they'd had and stands frozen watching the train cars shrink around the bend of trees. It is the absolute silence that awakes him to his reality. He turns quick and makes a step toward the beach house until he spots the undercover deputy sheriff sitting on the station bench reading a book. "It's the same man from the park," thinks Dale. He stops, slowly turns back toward the park then stands there holding onto a longing-gaze memory face. "A full minute should be about right for a lonely man falling in love." He turns and walks toward the beach house wearing a wide smile. Standing beside his car, he takes another long memory stare at the park. Finally satisfied with his act, he gets in his car and leaves. At the city limits he begins checking his rearview mirror, but no one follows.
During the drive back to his home he reflects upon how comfortable being with her was. And at one red light he falls into a trance memory stare, missing the signal changes to green, red and then green again. A loud blast of a car horn from behind brings him back to the road. "Sorry" he gestures to the mirrored face. He hammers the company car gas pedal and squeals some rubber. Shaking his head he mutters to himself, "I'm mesmerized like a school boy." He takes a deep breath, relaxes his shoulders returning his focus to the task of driving. "Got to keep my mind on the road, so much traffic out here."
The NWG's mandatory commuter bus and rail system worked in the city, but was found too costly for the rural farm areas. So the farther from the city, the more the traffic. While in the city the streets are littered with permanently parked cars of the dwellers; you can own a vehicle, but you just can't afford to drive one.
CHAPTER THREE TV Soaps, fact or fiction
When Jane gets back to her apartment, she hurries inside. She drops the basket and bag, then flops onto the couch. Simultaneously her next door neighbor knocks on the door, "Knock, knock, knock."
Jane raises her head, "Who is it?"
"Me, Maggie," muffles through the door.
Propping up on a cushion, "Come on in. I think it's open, it's probably open. It shouldn't be open, but it probably is. I'm tired, I'm beat. I probably forgot," Jane rambles on and on as Maggiemay enters.
"Anybody here with you?" she timidly quires.
"No. What'da ya think I am?" slightly shaking a no.
Maggiemay then quicks in, slamming the door as she rushes forward to the chair beside the collapsed reporter. "Details girl, I want details," rolling her wide eyes and licking her lips like the ship wrecked awaiting their first meal. "Come on Jane, talk. Was he there? Did you have any time alone? Did you kiss him? Was there any privacy?"
"Privacy? That's funny," she sits up, then carefully takes the mini-microphone loose from her brazier strap. Holding it to her mouth, "Ahh, Perry, I'm at home now, how do you turn this thing off?"
The telephone rings; it's Perry, he tells her, "The lab technicians will have to switch it off tomorrow. He didn't know much, think he was telling the truth?"
"Yea. I really do. He just got stuck in the middle cause they were college chums. I can believe that. Talk with you tomorrow about it. I'm tired and my neighbor is here." Jane smiles at her, then frowns at the microphone.
"You did good Jane, I'm proud of you. See you in the morning, good night," and Perry clicks off.
Jane is still frowning at the microphone, "See you tomorrow." She shush fingers Maggie and gestures for her to follow into the kitchen. From a cabinet she extracts a large can of fresh coffee grounds, pulling off the plastic lid. Then she wraps a hand towel around the microphone, pushing it deep into the can of grounds. She ons the lid and places the can back in the cabinet. "Now we have some privacy."
Back in the living room Jane tells her the highlights of the picnic, but won't divulge the reason for the microphone. "You'll just have to wait and read about it in my next commentary. Besides it could be dangerous to know anything more than what's in the newspaper."
"Dangerous? I guess you could be right. Oh Jane, I'm not interested in politics, you know that. Romance is my passion. Did he touch you? Did you hold hands? Did you want to, you know, with him, did you want to?" Maggiemay leans closer, eye brows extended.
Frowning in doubt, Jane admits, "Well, maybe someday. I'd say he's on the maybe list. We set up a diner and dancing date. I think Reggy Rocks across from the office will do just fine."
Maggiemay smiles, "Good show girl. Definitely on the maybe list." She giggles, "Girl I think you got yourself a man."
Jane giggles and gently shoves back, "Go on home with you. I got things to do."
Maggiemay ups and leaves, at the door she asks, "You have to wear that thing at the night club?"
Shrugging her shoulders, "Don't know, probably have to."
"Better safe than sorry. You know how the NWG works. A tape will keep your butt covered and your boss happy and will make a nice momento for your grand kids."
Throwing a pillow at the door, Jane yells, "Out you!" She then readies herself for bed.
Meanwhile back at the newspaper office the static coming over Jane's microphone has Perry and staff wondering. "Think she broke it? Na, probably covered it up with a pillow, that's what I'd do. Yea, she's safe and sound at home." Perry ends the debate, "Home is just where the rest of us should be. Tomorrow is another work day." He gestures them to leave.
After the last of the staff disappears on the elevator, Perry calls his friend, the Sheriff of PARKIT. "Well, what do you think? That Dale on the level?"
"We listened to the tape again. And I'm in agreement with Jinkens who was undercover on the scene every minute. They appeared to be two people on a date. They laughed, played chase and trusted each other enough to be out in canoes. Just like young lovers. Didn't look suspicious or dangerous."
Perry says, "Oh boy that's what I was afraid of."
"Say you don't have a thing for her, do you? Isn't she about your daughter's age?"
"Yea, she's just like a daughter to me. And I get a little worried sometimes. I don't know about that guy, if he really is on the up and up."
"Well. She's a smart girl. Tell her to be careful. Those reporters have to take some chances to get their stories, isn't that right?"
Perry nods to the phone, "Yea yea."
"Well if there's anything else I can do, let me know. Can you keep us in the loop on this?"
"As much as I can, I will. Talk to ya later," and Perry clicks off the phone.
Monday 8am November 6, 2000
The next morning finds Jane staring at the office elevator doors, waiting for them to open at her floor. She has been drifting back to the park with Dale since the break of day. Consequently, the coffee water boiled away, the toast didn't toast and her hot shower became a rude cold shower. Lost in memory, as the doors open isn't that bad for the crowd behind her just nudges her into the newspaper office. But she doesn't fully return to the present until her desk buddy Pat tugs at her jacket cuff.
"Wake up Jane. This is not a dream. You do work here. Wake up girly and smell the newsprint," lifting a UI news bulletin up to her eyes, "Seems like the Phone Company has a spreading disease."
The article brings Jane back to reality. "Local telephone service was disrupted for two days outside of Taos, New Mexico. Two high wire telephone poles were found on the ground. The phone lines across the interstate highway caused a tour bus carrying senior citizens to skid off the road; only minor injuries. The telephone company spokesman attributed a freak desert wind as the cause." Jane took the clipping to her desk and tacked it on her tiny bulletin board.
Pat rolls her chair close to Jane, "On the lighter side of life, how's tricks with you and your email pal? Think you'll ever meet?"
Raising her eye brows, "What? Oh yea, that's right you weren't here Saturday afternoon."
"So? I had a soccer game to review. Way on the other side of town. Perry say anything 'bout me leaving early?" shooting a worried glance toward his office.
"No no. It's not that. We had a meeting about the telephone outage. My new email friend, Dale, has a contact, an old college chum, who knows more than the Phone Company is saying. Dale's contact agreed to relay the info to me, but only at a rural secluded park. Perry decided to go with the story if I wore a microphone. So I took the train to PARKIT yesterday and met Dale there." Jane rush whispers this to Pat's eager ears.
"Wow. Real cloak and dragger. Just like Thursday Night Mystery on cable three. I'm impressed. You actually met this guy in a park?" Pat sits closer; wearing her reporter's serious but dubious face.
Jane nods, " Dale yes. But his contact was a no show."
"You, just you, in a park, all alone wearing a hidden microphone?" continues Pat's query.
Jane nods another yes.
"A hidden microphone? Just who was at the other end, Perry and a camera?" opening her eyes wide, Pat waits anxiously for the truth.
"No. Perry stayed here. The local sheriff and an undercover deputy were at the park listening to everything we said. I think the man reading at the next picnic table was the undercover cop, but I couldn't tell for sure," Jane's telling slows to calm explanation.
"Cops. I should have guessed. That was smart. Learn anything?" nodding her approval.
"Not nearly enough. But just enough to make me suspicious, especially now after reading about those downed telephone poles in Taos." Jane sits erect and quick eyes the office for ease droppers.
Pat strokes her chin in thought, "I was right, just like a TV mystery, cool. He peaked your interest without revealing himself. Maybe he's just using the dead phones as a way to meet you. And the mystery college chum was just the bait. Maybe he's just a man wanting to meet a pretty, single woman? Would that be so bad? Isn't that what you really need, a romance?"
"Well. Ah, well, yea, sort of. Romance was a big part of what the day was. "
Pat perks at that, "So he really didn't tell you anything about the phones?"
"He knew the wires were burnt, but could have learned that from the repair crew or the men in dark suits. That's all he really said," resting her left hand against her head.
Pat strokes her chin in thought again, "Men in dark suits? So he does know someone who knows something."
"Yea, I think so," finger scratching her temple
They both sit in quiet thought as the elevator lets a handful of office people chit-chatting their way through the maze toward their desks.
After the quiet settles in and before the phones begin ringing, Pat continues her quiz of Jane's day in the park. "So how long were you there? What did you two do? Is he nice? Attractive as his photo?"
"I took a picnic basket of food, which he liked," smiling and blinking her schoolgirl eyes. "We watched some local boys fish, which was interesting but very yucky. Walked over the dam to the dock and rented canoes. He had one. I had one. I challenged him to a race and I won. Ha ha, thank you very much. Then we did a foot race back to the table. That ended in a tie, swinging hands in a circle we fell to the ground. I got a grass stain on my jeans and he offered to pay for the cleaning. Then I took the train back. End of story."
Pat sat intently nodding after each sentence as if approving of Jane's actions. "Sounds like a very nice picnic, a fun day?"
"Yes. Oh yes, a very fun day. And we have a maybe diner date tonight" beaming feminine.
Pat nods again, "You should see yourself right now, you look ten years younger. Like a college girl with her first love."
"That's just how I feel," her face slightly flushed. She exhales deeply, "He seems so nice and sincere. I sure hope he really isn't a part of this telephone outage thing."
Pat muses, "I sure hope so too. You deserve some happiness in your life."
"Thanks," appreciative look of shared intimacy.
The first of the day's many incoming phone calls takes them back to their own desks and work assignments.
Jane ons her computer then checks her email. Of the listed subjects, PARKIT, excites her interest. Filling the screen, she reads that it is a thank you for the nice picnic from Dale. He is at work and adds how he is looking forward to diner and dancing.
Jane immediately re-mails, "Thank you. But I won't be able to confirm our date at Reggie Rocks until after the day's four o'clock deadline. In this business you never know where or when a fast breaking story will turn up."
Her incoming email bell dings and she reads the re-email from Dale. "Sitting on egg shells until 4". Her face blushes a giggle, "Whose eggs?"
Jane's laughing eyes
finally come to rest on the two notes on her bulletin board: burnt phone wires
on Maple Street, downed phone poles outside Taos. Three large breaths somber
her face. She scribbles a third note, "soap opera" and tacks it on
the board. She scrutinizes her computer, following the trail of wires that
disappear beneath the floor, "Just where does this info go?" She
spins around to face Pat, "Can I use your old machine?" Seeing a yes,
she turns the portable typewriter stand around. She carefully puts a blank page
in Pat's manual typewriter then finger-hammers the title Phone Outages - A
Conspiracy?
She looks at the notes
again, then dials the Phone Company. Identifying herself as a reporter for the
Free Press, she tells the spokesman that she knows for a fact that the outage
on Maple Street was caused from burnt wires inside the connection box. "I
personally saw the wires. What more does the Phone Company wish to add to this
story for the public's information?"
"We have a press release, I'll read it to you and send you a copy if you need one, alright?" says the friendly phone representative.
"Yes. Read and send," Jane puts pencil to paper.
"Fine. I quote: 'There was a minor wiring problem at the Maple Street junction last Wednesday. The repair crews worked around the clock to reinstall phone service to the community. The Phone Company apologizes for any inconvenience to our customers.' I'll send you a copy in care of the Free Press.' Have a nice day," and then the phone goes silent.
Jane quickly scribbles the last words of the message, "My that certainly was a short interview."
Just then Perry walks past her desk. He pauses long enough to say, "When you get that park report done, come to the office." He continues on and a half a dozen staffers grab papers from their desks and rush to meet him. For the next half-hour Perry gives out new assignments, marks up new copy, answers three phone calls and settles a dispute.
Meanwhile, Jane types up her first draft of the phone outage and the meeting with Dale. Leaving her personal feelings out of the draft is difficult for her political commentary style has flourished among the fans because she has always added her own two cents worth of personal feelings. But she has easily convinced herself that, "What I feel or don't feel for this man, is no bodies' business 'cept my own."
As the last staffer departs, Jane enters Perry's glass walled office. Not once has she ever seen him lower the blinds, but he does this time. "What's up? You sensitive to the light?"
As the last view of the outer office slips behind the gray plastic, Perry begins, "Can't take a chance, one of them might read lips. I heard what he said about the strong acid burning the wires. Did he say anything else? Did he write you a note? What about all those emails he has been sending you, anything cryptic?"
Jane hands the short report forward to his anxious hands. "No, there really is nothing else to say about him. I believe some old college chum went political and is using him because he is important in Diacom."
Perry puts the report in an empty folder, then slides the filing cabinet drawers shut. Turning with his finger gestured upwards, "And I believe you. But there is just not enough here for a story, especially if you're thinking of some type of anti-phone company terrorist conspiracy."
Jane returns the-ceiling-has-ears gesture, "Well I think there is some kind of story brewing. But I don't think Dale is involved. He's a nice guy, got an important job, young and healthy. I can't see him doing anything to mess that up. They just put him in the middle."
Perry returns to his desk chair, "You could be right, there might be a story, just not enough to go public yet. Keep your ears open and let me know immediately if your new friend Dale has any more information."
"Right boss. Will do," she snaps a short salute to him and spins around for the door. Hand on the doorknob she pause-stops, then spins back. "Ah well, I forgot to mention that I have a maybe diner and dancing date tonight with Dale at the Reggy Rocks."
"What! How could you forget something like that? This guy might be part of some terrorist gang, you don't know for sure. Maybe he's just an innocent messenger boy or maybe more. Until we're definite, you have got to wear that microphone, for your protection and the newspaper's. Is that understood?!" He is animate and half out of his chair with worry and concern.
"The microphone? Every time we're together?" frowning.
Perry stands up, "Yes! Every time. You might be in the middle of something very serious, very dangerous," finger gesturing at the ceiling.
Nodding her head in disappointed acceptance, "You are right Perry. This could be serious. I'll wear the mic."
"I'll call down to the lab so we can run a test on it. I hate calling the local cops in on this, but you should have some protection," and his fingers begin pushing numbers.
"Wait. I left the microphone back at my apartment."
"No problem, we'll give you a new one." Perry continues to punch numbers.
She reaches over and offs the receiver, "Wait. I have to change into my evening clothes. I can get the microphone then."
"What time are you meeting him?"
"Seven," glancing at her watch.
"You'll have to stop in here first so they can check the microphone," he begins to punch the phone numbers again.
She offs the receiver again, "Wait. Wait. Are you absolutely sure the cops are necessary? This is suppose to be just a dinner and dancing date. Not a meeting to get terrorist info," Jane's schoolgirl romance fantasy tries to maintain control.
"Sorry dear, but it's my job to keep my reporters out of harms way. I know about the phone lines down in Taos. And another neighborhood lost its phone service over breakfast this morning," Perry punched the phone numbers again.
Her mouth drops open and she coughs for words, "Ahhha ahhaa, what? Where, when, how did you find out?"
Shrugging his shoulders, "Coincidence. Luck? I was on the phone this morning with my old college chum, who runs the Miami Sun Television Guide. We were discussing vacation plans when the phone went dead. Fifteen minutes later he calls me back on his wireless cell phone. Ten square blocks around his home are mysteriously dead. Sounds just like your Maple Street. doesn't it? " Perry lifts the receiver to his ear and sits back in his chair, "Agent George Mast please."
Jane reaches over and disconnects the phone again, "What about my romance?" Jane mumbles in disappointment.
"What?" Perry half shouts.
"Romance. That's right, he thinks we're going to have a romance. That's what I really learned at the picnic," admitting only Dale's half of the emotions.
"So fine. Let him think what he wants to, that's what young men do. He still could be dangerous," glaring across the mess of old story drafts strewn about the desktop.
"He's not!" she glares back.
"You've only known him a week, he could be. I can't chance the risk. You work for me. You're a reporter. You're investigating a possible terrorist story, remember?" gradually lowering his voice to calm.
"Sorry, sorry boss. You're right. Newspaper reporter, that's me. Anything for the story. He thinks it's a romance. Fine, I just play along," gently rocking in the chair.
"Right. Get him to talk, we get it on tape. If he's innocent, fine, no harm done. But if he's one of them, you might need some protection." And Perry begins to redial the F.B.I.
Jane pushes the receiver's off button again, "Wait. Some protection. You're right. That's a good idea. But not the F.B.I. Pat. I'll take Pat along with me. A public place, two women. He wouldn't dare try anything. Besides I trust him. I was the one alone with him at the park."
Shaking his head, "You weren't alone. The undercover deputy, remember?"
"The point is, Dale thought we were alone. And he was the perfect gentleman. Not once was I alarmed," holding her hand against the off button. "Pat has a black belt in Karate, she could kick his butt with one hand behind her back if he tried anything. Nothing happened at the park and if nothing happens at the club, the cops will think you're crying 'wolf wolf'. We don't want that do we?" Jane's calm reason was winning him over.
"Well maybe I was getting a little ahead of myself. I guess I worry a little too much about you. Pat has a black belt huh, didn't know that. Hummmm. I suppose you two gals could handle one skinny guy. But I insist you wear the microphone, just in case he has some new info from that contact of his." He puts the phone back into its cradle. "Get her in here."
Jane opens his office door and waves toward Pat. Catching Pat's attention she gestures her to come to the office.
Perry explains to Pat that she is going undercover with Jane on a diner date. "You'll be the third wheel, keep him from putting the moves on her, and if he gets out of hand kick him where it counts. You girls arrived together; you leave together. Understand your assignment?"
Pat smiles, "Gotcha dad. This is at company expense of course."
Perry frowns, "I suppose so."
Pat grins, "I'll need a new evening gown to properly play my part, dad."
Rolling his eyes, "I suppose so."
As the girls leave the office Pat nudges Jane, "Big date tonight. Hot story? Gonna need shoes to match that fancy dress. What'd ya say we go shopping?"
Jane glances back at Perry, "Could be a very hot story. Definitely need to look our best. Just gotta have a purse and matching hat."
"Don't push it." And gestures them out, "Be back here at six p.m. to check out the microphone. Go."
Pat and Jane part directions at the commuter bus depot. Pat boards a shopping district bus to find nice new undercover eveningwear and Jane heads south to clean her apartment.
Sunday is Jane's usual day for cleaning, but the picnic in the park with Dale has usurped her normal chores. And shopping comes second to having a neat and tidy living space. She had realized during her college dormitory days that she couldn't tolerate the messes that her roommates didn't even notice. Vowing to live next to God, she had dutifully maintained a life of cleanliness upon graduation.
While dusting the television screen she accidentally pushes the on button. The picture tube fuzzes and the sound clears while she is wiping the coffee table. A dialogue of soon-to-be-lovers slips from the speaker, surprising and enticing Jane to sit and watch.
"Oh Bob, you're so manly, so strong."
"Yes Alice, I am strong, very strong. I was on the rowing team in college. We always took first place. Do you want to touch my muscle?"
"Oh Bob, can I squeeze your muscle?
"Yes Alice, you can squeeze it as hard as you like."
"Oh Bob, it's so big, so hard."
"Yes Alice, it is big and hard just for you."
Jane glances from her dusting to the television to spy the young woman's hands around the man's arm.
"Oh Bob, I think I'm getting hungry. Are you?"
"Yes Alice, I am very hungry."
"Oh Bob, I was hoping you were. I know a very special place in town. Would you like to go there with me?"
"Yes Alice, I would like to go to your special place."
"Oh Bob, I was always happy at Bobby Socks. Can we go there tonight?"
"Yes Alice. We can. Here comes the train."
Jane mutters to herself, "Bobby Socks? Reggy Rocks?" She looks back at the screen to spy the couple holding hands and running across a green lawn toward a train station that reminds her immediately of PARKIT.
The scene fades and the end of the show credits begin to roll. Jane stands mute, staring until the commercial airs. Then she reaches over the coffee table and offs the television. Muttering to herself, "That couple was on Maggie's TV the day I got the picnic basket. It's that new political soap opera. The news reporter and the computer geek. Running on the lawn for a train. Bobby Socks instead of Reggy Rocks." Jane does a slow turn around the apartment muttering, "It's against the law to put hidden cameras in private citizens living quarters. You know that, don't you? It's against the law to put a citizen's life on television, isn't it? Well isn't it!"
"Knock knock knock," raps on the hall door.
Jane's body jerks completely around to face the door faster than a F16 fighter jet. So fast, that even she is surprised. "Who is it?" blurts out of her mouth.
"Maggie," the door creeps open and only her head slips through, "just checking. What you doing home this time of day?"
"Oh. Got the day off to go shopping, but this place is a wreck," quickly pointing to clothes over the backs of chairs, a pile of dishes in the sink, "and let me give your basket back." Jane steps over to the basket, lifts it to the coffee table then begins taking the empty containers out.
"I'm just glad I saved it, but honestly I never thought it would see a park bench again. Shopping for your date tonight?"
"Oh, I can't, I spent over my government allowance last week. It's alright, I've got a nice dress I've been saving for such a special occasion." Jane puts the last bowl on the table and closes the basket lid.
"Oh! Just what are you wearing?"
Raising a sarcastic eyebrow, "Just my microphone."
"Microphone? I don't understand. I thought you two had a nice picnic. Are you that worried about tonight?"
Jane carefully balances a row of bowls on her arm cradled against her side, "I'm not. It's Perry's idea. He thinks Dale might be dangerous, that he really might be part of the, ops I almost said too much. Anyway, he's sending Pat along tonight."
"Pat? You mean Pat from your office?"
Jane nods a "Yes" as she begins to stack a second bowl of plastic bowls in her left arm
"A chaperon? What kind of romantic night is that?" squenching up her eyebrows
"Exactly! It's not. It was either Pat or some F.B.I., ops, I've done it again. Anyway Pat's shopping for a dress on the company's account and will be at our table all night. Perry says it's just incase Dale is part of the story and not just an innocent messenger." Jane tries putting another bowl on the stack and knocks one loose. She quick lunges for it and knocks the whole armful loose. While plastic bowls bang and bounce off the coffee table like giant ping-pong balls, Jane starts waving her arms wildly and lets loose a loud scream, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!'
Upon the return of silence, Maggiemay calmly says, "Are we all done now? Do you feel better?'
Jane flops down on the couch cushions, "Yes. All done. All better."
Maggiemay goes to the basket, opens the top, then picks up and puts all the plastic bowls back inside. She then carries the basket to the kitchen where she dumps the bowls into the sink. Then she walks over to the hallway door with basket in hand, "Well, try to be nice tonight. Your boss might be right, he might be wrong. Either way, it won't hurt to have a girlfriend along. Hells-bells girl, maybe she'll find somebody and you'll both get lucky."
Jane breaks into a slow laugh, "Ha ha ha he he te he. Lucky, yea maybe."
With the hallway door half-open she calls to Jane, "Well I got to go check my soap. I taped it while I was out. I just can't wait to see what happened with Bob and Alice. They were going out to the beach for a picnic, a secret get-away from the maddening crowd of reporters and noisy secretaries. I wonder if they got lucky?"
Jane raises her arm and begins to mutter, "Wait." But the door slams shut. So she continues the dialogue with herself. "I just saw the end of that show. Just before she arrived. Bob and Alice running for the train. So they had been at a private beach. And Dale and I had been at a park near the beach. I should tell Maggie. No. She'd just say, 'What coincidence? They were at the beach and you were in a park.' So has big brother turned my life into a TV soap opera or am I losing my mind?" Jane gets up and goes into the kitchen to wash the bowls.
The kitchen clean and the apartment vacuumed, she sends an email to Dale, "Reggy Rod at 7pm. Okay?"
Dale's email response of, "7pm with bells on." Sends shivers of excitement through her. She takes a deep breath, then goes to the couch for a nap.
The ringing phone finally wakes Jane from her island beach-lovers-running-in-the-surf dream. "I'm up. I'm up, just a minute," as she stumbles over the arm of the couch, knocking the receiver off the hook with her clumsy grab. She rolls slowly to the floor, facing the talking voice.
"Jane. Jane. Are you alright?' Pat's concern questions.
"I'm awake now. Just taking a nap," rubbing her eyes.
"You'd better get a move on it. It's almost six. You ready?' Pat hurries her inquiry.
"Ready for what?" then answering her own question, "The date. I've got a diner date at seven. Oh no, I fell asleep. What time is it?" reaching for the phone and carefully getting to her feet.
"Not to worry. Plenty of time. Get dressed and met me at the club. Skip the office, no time for," her voice trails away, then a muffled argument, then, "Perry says to get the microphone and put it on right now so we can test it."
"Oh yea. That damn microphone. Okay, hold the phone. I'll get it," dropping the receiver onto the end table. Three quick steps to the cabinet, doors open, coffee can down to the counter, lid off, wash cloth janked out and loose grounds splatter everywhere. "Oh hells-bells!" She extracts the tiny black gadget from the wash cloth then pins it to her brazier as she walks back to the phone. The receiver in her left hand, "Test, test, test, can you hear me?"
"Perry says you have to walk away from the phone."
"Oh yea, okay." Jane walks back into the kitchen and begins to wipe up the split coffee grounds, "Can you hear me? Can you guess what I am doing right now? Oh how nice, Jane cleaning her kitchen on tape for the whole world to hear."
When the last of the grounds are whisked away, Jane returns to the telephone, "Pat? Could they hear that?"
"Yes. Perry is nodding his head. He looks funny wearing that headset, wish I had a camera," Pat giggles.
"Please. Don't put any ideas in his head. This microphone is bad enough." Putting the receiver at arm's length, Jane bends down toward the microphone, "Perry. I don't like this at all. Not at all." She then speaks back into the receiver, "Pat, I'll meet you at the bar in Reggy Rocks," glancing at her watch, "just at seven, that is if I can catch the next bus in ten minutes." And she slams down the phone.
She rushes to her closet and takes the waiting evening gown from its protective plastic. Business suit tossed to the bed, she ons the silk. From a box marked 'dancing' she ons a pair of black flats, at the jewelry box she fingers the tiny shinny accessories and mutters, "Less is best." She carefully extracts a single strand of quality fake pearls and matching ear rings and drops them into a shoulder strap evening purse. Glancing at her watch, "Make-up on the bus," she quickly transfers her kit from the workday bag to the open purse, then drops a slender hairbrush on top of that. She dashes like a world record sprinter from the bedroom to the bus stop to step through the bus doors closing behind the last passenger.
The bus stops are just long enough for Jane to properly apply her make-up and style her hair. At her office building, she has attained the calm sophisticated demeanor that befits the gown dangling about her flesh. Even the burly bus driver takes a long wishful look as she strolls toward the nightclub awnings instead of the revolving doors of the Free Press.
"Jane. Oh Jane. Wait up a sec," Pat's voice catches her ear just as she steps into the shadow of the long sidewalk awning.
Turning to face her companion sporting a stunning mini-shirt and flesh-toned blouse, Jane smiles, "The company certainly has nice taste." When Pat is nearer she whispers, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were out to snag my fellow."
Laughing loudly, "Gonna snag something, that's for sure. Ha ha ha ha. Wait a sec. Perry has to check the mic." They both look back at the newspaper building.
The front door opens just wide enough for a bare arm to stick through. Its hand gestures a thumbs-up, then disappears behind the dark glass.
"That's the signal it's working. We can go in now." Checking her reflection in the doors, "Think this is too short?" tugging at the hem of the narrow cloth wrapped around her hips.
"Ha ha ha, not short enough for what you're after this evening," Jane quick grabs her arm, "Let's go knock their socks off."
Much to their surprise and disappointment, the nightclub is absent of customers. One middle-aged couple sits at a booth sipping tall glasses. A solitary bald business suit sits on a stool facing the bartender. A woman sporting a scanty black and white apron stands at a center table collecting silverware into a box. And the bandstand holds but a barren set of drums.
Pointing at the drums, Jane gleams, "See, there's going to be a band later."
The waitress looks up, "Sorry ladies, nothing live tonight, only on the weekends. There's a juke-box in the corner if you're wanting to dance."
Pat walks over the Melody Box in the corner and begins reading the labels.
Jane goes closer to the waitress, "Oh that's alright. We're meeting a friend for dinner. You still serve meals don't you?"
"Sorry dearie, not after 7p.m." glancing at her wristwatch, "you're just a little late."
"My oh my, this isn't going very well. And it's our first real date," slowly lowering her head despondent.
"Now don't you fret dearie. There's still the desert tray. Chocolate cake and champagne will turn any man's mind to romance. A couple slow tunes on the box and a whirl around the floor and he'll be buying you a ring in the morning," smiles the bright white teeth.
"Champagne and chocolate cake? Yes. Yes you're right. That would do it for me," Jane perked up. "Yea, a bottle of champagne. Pink champagne." Taking a chair at a table that still holds silverware, "And that cake, the whole cake, I'm starved."
"Right you are dearie." Hurrying over to the desert cart, she wheels the array of sweets back to Jane. She carefully sets the large oval cake platter in the center of the table, removing the protective cover to the cart. She then wheels the noisy cart away to the kitchen, returning with four plates and four wine glasses and a cake knife, which she places beside Jane. "I'd suggest small slices, it's very rich. Be right back with your wine." She hurries a path through the tables and disappears behind the kitchen door. Backing her way through the door, she quickly wheels a slender cart carrying a magnum of champagne half submerged in ice to Jane's table. "Sorry about the rush dearie, the baby sitter has to leave early tonight. If you need anything else, ask Jake behind the bar. You can pay him later. You have a nice evening dearie." She flashes a grin and a wink and hurries away to the kitchen door.
"Now all I need is some romantic music and my man," Jane mutters to herself.
Then, right on her cue, the silence is replaced by the first of a long series of dance songs Pat has punched into the juke-box. "First the tide comes rushing in and plants a kiss on the shore. Then rolls out to sea to be still once more." The melody haunts her memory and the lyrics stir a hunger within that cake can't satisfy.
Glancing back toward the doors, Jane's gaze is filled by Dale's entrance. She rises out of her chair and drifts to his waiting arms. They finish the song in dance where they stand. In the pause between the songs Jane takes his hand and guides him to their table. She takes the cake knife and holds it above the dark oval. He grabs the champagne bottle and tears the foil off the cork. As Jane slides the blade into the cake, Dale twists the cork up. The cork pops loudly as the first sliver of cake loosens from the platter. The pinkish hue bubbles and fills the tall glasses about the table as slivers of the sweet desert fill the thick white plates. Their eyes meet across the table and they freeze.
Pat has stayed beside the music box slow dancing with a memory until the song's end. She heaves a sigh and calls over to the bartender, "A whiskey for the lady, my good man. Straight up." Then jauntily steps to the end of the bar.
Jake and his only customer have both been watching Pat sway to music. He has jabbed the bald beer drinker with a go-on-get-her gesture. But the balding businessman only huffs a smile and watches her dance. Jake the bartender lifts a bottle toward her; she nods an okay and he pours a generous portion into a slender glass. When he slides the stainless steel scope into the box of ice cubes she hollers, "No ice, bar-keep. I like my drinks like I like my men, strong." He leaves the scope in the box, nods and jabs the suit again. By the time Jake hands the glass to her, she has seen Dale pour the champagne and is in motion to join them.
"Whee! What a long day," Pat slides a chair out and plops down, careful not to spill the brown liquid. She sloshes a mouthful and gulps, "Chough chough ahhhh, warms all the way down." Then she notes that they are still standing and that they are just staring at each other. "Ah, sweet romance thine heart takes the mind. Deserts nor mountains nor hurricanes can stop." Pat raises her glass to them, then empties the whiskey. "Wheeooo, smooth," clunking the glass upon the table she continues to interrupt, "Say Jane. You sure set a nice table. Say Jane. Want to introduce me to your friend?" She clunks the empty glass again.
Her trance cracked, Jane's eyes slowly guide her head to face Pat, who smiles white teeth and blinks dark eyelashes. "Oh. Oh yea. I am. I will introduce you." Jane hand gestures Pat to Dale, "This is my office buddy, the famous sports columnist, Pat Moanoham. And this is the computer genius from the Diacom Corporation."
Dale tilt nods once and extends his handshake, "Nice to meet you I'm sure." Pat imitates, "You look nice to me." Then their palms embrace briefly.
Jane breaks the silence, "A toast. Let's toast to the beginning of our long friendship." She grabs a glass of pink and raises it chest high. Dale takes the glass nearest and does likewise. Pat stands, noisily pushing the chair backwards, also extending her glass.
Jane continues, "To us" as her eyes meet Dale's again. He simply says, "Yes" and quickly clinks his glass against hers.
Pat sees that her glass is empty, "Where's mine?" turning her glass upside down.
Jane giggles, "On the table, right in front of you."
As Pat replaces the empty whiskey glass for the champagne, Jane and Dale simultaneously sip to their future. Pat raises her full glass forward and clinks vacant space, "To long friendships," and hurries a catch-up sip.
Jane's eyes twinkle, "I'm starved." Dale's eyes widen, "Me too." And Pat's eyes roll toward the ceiling, "Me three." They each take a long drink and then the trio sits down.
Jane and Dale reach for each other and hold hands across the table; their arms encompass the cake sitting between them. They sit silently gazing into each other's eyes.
Finally Pat interrupts, "I thought we were going to eat the cake, not ritualize it."
Jane glares at her, breaks her hand holding, then left hands one of the plates with a thin slice over the cake to her right hand which drops it heavily on the table before Pat. Jane quickly takes Dale's hands in hers again.
Pat looks down at the plate, "This isn't very much. Can't I have a larger slice?"
Jane glares at her, breaks her hand holding again, then left hands the cake knife to her right hand which cuts a wider sliver. Sliding the blade under the piece she quicks it atop Pat's plate. Knife on the cake platter, Jane quickly takes Dale's hands in hers again.
Pat looks about the table, counting, "One, two, three, four. I see four plates of cake. Whose is that?" pointing at the plate of chocolate opposite her.
This time Dale breaks their handholding. He looks about the place, his eyes settling on the bald spot at the bar railing, who happens to be watching the trio in the mirror. "There's your blind date." Dale gets up slowly, nods, "Ladies," then weaves through the tables to stand next to the businessman at the bar.
"Hello, my name's Dale. Sorry to interrupt, it's just that my girl friend's best friend is a little shy. She saw you sitting alone and wants to meet you. Allow me the opportunity to introduce you two." Then whispering in his ear, "Play your cards right and you could get lucky tonight." Taking the man's elbow with his right and draping his left about his left shoulder, Dale spin push-pulls the suit from the stool to the floor. Maintaining his grasp, he pull-walks the businessman to the empty chair at their table. Extending his open hand, "Pat, this is your date for the evening. Mr. ah Mr."
"Mr. Benjamin Harrison, the IV, at your service mame." pulling the chair out, smiling warmly at Pat, he sits opposite her.
Dale walks around to Jane and extends his open hands. She grasps both his hands and stands. He walks backwards to the dance floor, pulling her behind him. She walks in step and falls against him in dance. When that song ends they just keep dancing close. During the next two songs Dale and Jane stay on the floor swaying to the music.
Meanwhile Pat has moved closer to her blind date. They eat some cake, drink some champagne and talk about sports. They make a date to play tennis and discuss tentative plans to teach Pat the finer points of golf.
Jane breaks in-between the songs, "I've got to ask, my boss wants to know. Have you learned anything else from your college chum?"
"No. Not a word since that first time about the strong acid on the wires. Why? Is there something else going on?" Dale pulls back enough to see her face.
"Nothing around here. Let's go get some cake." Jane and Dale return to the table to fill their bellies with food and drink. They learn from Pat that Ben is an international computer sales representative for a rival company of Diacom.
Jane brings up the current World Congress discussion of one set of rules for all people throughout the planet.
Ben says he thinks that might be a good idea. He sites, "I often take prospective clients out for lunch, sometimes diner and more often and not, my company pays the check. And I always send clients Christmas and birthday presents. In some backward countries that could be viewed as a payoff or bribe. But in the highly industrial Western Hemisphere, it's just a common business practice, almost a traditional courtesy. I'd hate to end up in jail in Boa Boa for something everyone else is doing in Paris or Brussels, New York or LA. That one set of rules for everyone sounds like a good idea to me."
Pat smiles, "You've been to Boa Boa?"
Ben turns and smiles at her, "Oh yes many times. I swing through there once a year. Went on a hunting trip out in the bush country last year. Around the campfire one evening our guide told us how the ancient head-hunters would skin their captives before boiling them for supper. They tanned the skin and made it into coats."
Jane shivers, "Owee. How cruel, so barbaric."
Shrugging his shoulders, Dale sarcastically adds, "Not so much different than what we do to cattle."
Pat leans close, disbelieving, "Are you comparing cows to people? Don't you see the difference?"
Dale shakes his head, "Let's see. Cows mate, bear their offspring and nurse them; just like we do. They talk, eat, crap, get sick, get old and die; just like we do. I don't see any basic difference. Humans make things and cows don't; is that what you mean?"
Pat frowns, "Sort of. We are better than cows and all the other animals. We have laws. We have religion."
Dale smiles, "How do you know that humans are better, smarter than all the other animals?"
Pat smiles back, "Because God said so. He made the animals for us to use and to eat."
Dale grins incredulous, "And how do you know that?"
Pat grins back defiant, "Because it is in the Bible."
Dale nods, "And who wrote that Bible? A cow or some human?"
Pat curtly, "Don't be so stupid. You know it was written by people and they were inspired, guided to write it by God."
Dale wonders, "Only people can read it. If humans are so smart why can't we understand the other animals when they talk to each other? If we could learn their languages and we told them about our God, do you think they would agree that God created them for us to use and to kill and eat?"
Pat nods and grins, "Of course they would agree with us."
Ben interjects, patting Pat's shoulder, "She's right ol' man. God is better than us and we are better than the other animals."
Jane has been quietly listening and thinking, "So then, does that mean that the ancient people of Boa Boa were better than the people they ate?"
Ben scratches his head, "Uhhh. I don't think so. I think they were wrong to eat other humans. And after awhile they realized that so they stopped eating people and only ate animals."
Dale jumps back into the discussion, "Well do you think the people of Boa Boa will some day realize that eating animals is wrong?"
Ben grins, "No way. They are still very backwards. You just wouldn't believe how they treat their women."
Pat leans closer, "Like queens?"
"Well. Not exactly. During the full moon they…"
Jane interjects, "Are you forgetting the traditional cultural differences that have existed since time began. There's no way you could expect an Eskimo to be like a Frenchman, or that either of them would want to. So how could there be one set of rules?"
And Dale adds, "The Inca's believed in many different gods running this planet, while at the same time in history, the Christians had only one god. And that's just one of the many different religious differences."
Ben nods agreeing, "You both make good points. But when it comes to business practices, the buying, selling and trading of goods and services, I think the rules for that should be the same and binding for everyone of this world. That way there would be less confusion or misunderstandings. Everyone goes home happy, no matter where you are doing business. Happy people are honest and well meaning. Happy people don't have ulcers and they don't go to war."
Dale nods approvingly, "I'm in business too and one set of rules governing business world wide does sound like a fair proposition. But not one set of rules totally. So many divergent religious and cultural practices that one set of rules governing everyone is not practical, That would make the world a Totalitarian dictatorship." Dale slips a bite of cake onto his tongue.
Pat clinks her fork against her empty glass, "You two are confusing me. And my glass is empty."
Ben takes the bottle from the ice, refills their glasses, then inserts the bottle back, "You are right, it is a confusing issue. One set of rules for everyone has some good and some bad. Seems like a pretty important issue."
Jane nods, "A very important controversial issue. The World Congress has been debating it for months. Your point of view Ben, as traveling world salesman, is one I hadn't considered. Very interesting. You wouldn't mind me quoting you, would you?"
Ben frowns, "Well ah. I don't know if I want you putting my name in the paper. But I've talked to lots of salesman about accidentally breaking some local town laws. We sort of all agreed that one set of business rules would be a smart improvement. And for those far out of the way mountain villages, well they could be an exception, like those Australians who haven't any electricity. Nobody really goes out there to sell them anything anyway."
Jane says, "I like those ideas, think I'll use them, you mind?"
Ben smiles, "You like my ideas? Neat. I don't mind. Just don't mention my name, not too sure what the company would think or what this New World Government might do to me. It's one thing to chat at the table, quite another to be in print."
Jane continues, "Putting it in print, that's my job. Reporting what the World Congress is doing and considering doing. How it will affect the people, not just here but around the globe. I report how the population feels about what the Congress is doing. I'll just say something like 'Some international salesmen feel their job would be much safer if there was one standard of business rules governing all business transactions."
Ben nods his approval.
Pat gets up, "Sorry love, nature calls." She quickly kisses Ben on the cheek then turns toward the neon lights, GIRLS/GUYS.
Sliding her chair from the table, "Wait a sec Pat, I'll join you."
As the two women disappear into the bathroom, Ben says, "Thanks for the introduction, I think she's hot for me."
Dale nods, "Could be a lucky night for the both of us."
Jane is washing the cake crumbs away, "Pat we came here together, we leave here together. This is a first date. If you're planning an early Christmas present, forget it. Remember Perry?"
From behind a closed stall, "Perry. Oh yea. Perry. Can't forget about that microphone."
"If Ben presses you about later, 'We came together, we leave together', it's the standard girlfriend motto," Jane reminds her.
"It's okay Jane, we already set up a tennis date for this weekend. I'll unwrap my present then," giggles Pat, "We're both finding a little romance, alright!" She slaps Jane a high-five at the washbasin.
When Jane and Pat re-enter the dining dancing room they are met with silence. The music box is dark, the couple at the far booth have left, the bartender has gone into the men's room and their dates are stuffing the last of the cake into their mouths. As they weave through the tables Jane notices Dale watching them, so she holds her wristwatch close to her face for a long four seconds. Then over her shoulder she tells Pat, "Fifteen, only fifteen minutes left."
"That can't be. We haven't been here that long. Where did the time go? Let me see that watch," Pat reaches around to grab up Jane's arm. Twisting the arm back to the shoulder, she leans against close to read the dial. "You're right. Only fifteen minutes left."
The women part about the table, taking their seats.
Dale looks at his wristwatch and Ben looks at his.
Pat sits down long enough to lean forward and kiss Ben on his cheek, "I had a wonderful evening Ben. Thank you." And then quickly stands.
Jane remains standing behind her chair. Tapping her wristwatch, "Time to go. The bus leaves in less than fifteen minutes. And the last bus isn't until ten and that's much too late. I've got an early day tomorrow and so do you," looking over at Pat. "You know how Perry is."
Nodding affirmative, "Yea yea yea. I know how he is. Sorry boys but we've got to go."
Glancing at his watch, "Guess it is getting a little late. Tomorrow is another day." Taking her hand in his, Ben gazes up into Pat's eyes, "We still on for tennis this weekend?"
Squeezing his palm, "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Meet you at the Spring Valley Club at 9 for juice."
Ben kisses the back of her hand, "Until then."
Just then Jane looks to Dale, "Ah we really got to get going. This was fun. I wouldn't mind coming back when the bank is playing," looking quickly at the dark stage.
Scratching the chair across the hardwood floor, Dale is abruptly against her back, wrapping his arms about her waist, "I can hardly wait," he sways her to the memory of their first dance.
The two couples are lost in the quiet of their own fantasies for an eternity.
"Excuse me folks," calls Jake the bartender from behind the cash register, "got a couple of tabs here that need paying."
Taking her hand free, Pat smiles, "That'll be yours."
"Yea. I'll get hers barkeep." Ben turns and walks over to the register.
Pat eyes the couple locked in a mesmerizing sway and calls loudly, "The bus is pulling into the station. Time to go!" With no response she bangs a chair on the floor, "thud". Their swaying continues to ignore her. "What do I have to do? Throw a bucket of water on you two?" And Pat reaches over, grabbing Jane's shoulder, twist pulling her free from their dance. "The bus. Remember the bus. Remember Perry! Come on girl, time to go." She drag pulls Jane through the table and chairs to the exit.
Outside under the sidewalk awning, the two women pause, readjusting to the streetlights. A commuter bus pulls up to the stop bringing purpose back to their minds.
Pat glances back at the night club doors, "Come on, that's your bus. They'll be outside any minute." She tugs a reluctant Jane across the street and to the open bus doors, asking the driver, "Maple Street?" He nods yes, so she pushes Jane onto the bus. Turning to see another bus arrive, "Here comes my bus, see you at the office tomorrow." Pat trots back to the second bus, pausing just long enough to give a wave at Ben and Dale standing under the long sidewalk awning.
Ben waves back, commenting to Dale, "That sure is one feisty gal."
Nodding and extending a goodbye handshake to Ben, "She sure is. Good luck to you both. And thanks again for stepping in."
"Whee, you were right. A lucky night for me."
"A lucky night for us both," breaking the handshake, Dale walks to the curb and gets in his company car.
Ben watches the buses drive away and Dale do a U-turn at the intersection for the opposite end of town. He then returns to the quiet of the Reggie Rocks bar rail.
By the time her bus reaches Maple Street, Jane has regained her composure. Muttering as she climbs the first floor apartment steps, "I think I should keep a diary, because this has got to be the beginning of my biggest adventure." Standing between apartment doors, her fatigue chooses, "Enough for one day, I'll talk to Maggie later." Carefully locking the door behind her, she begins disrobing on her way to the shower. As the water reaches tepid her last sock lands in the hamper. The water refreshes and relaxes. A towel to dry the wet hair and a long cotton robe to warm her wet flesh. In the kitchen she pours a glass of milk to soothe her mind for sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR The Internet, love it or leave it
Tuesday 7a.m. November 7, 2000
First off in the morning, Jane sends a short email to Dale, "I had the most delightful evening. Thank you very much. Am looking forward to the live band." She stares at the blank screen for fifteen minutes hoping for his immediate response, but Dale is still asleep. Consequently Jane miscalculates the time and has to rush breakfast, doing her make-up on the bus during its brief pickup stops.
Looking back across time
to 8:55a.m. "Mary. Is there any more orange juice? I've a few bites of toast left to wash down." John raises his empty glass, slightly waving it.
Turning from the sink, hands dripping soap bubbles, Mary smiles at her new husband, "Yes dear, I think there is."
"Could you do me a refill?" smiling and pointing into his empty glass.
"You mean right now?" carefully keeping her dripping fingers over the sink.
"Now would be good. The Chicago Stock Market opens for business at nine. I have to cover the hedge purchase I made at closing yesterday otherwise I'm ruined," still pointing into his empty glass, John continues, "I always do better on a full stomach."
Glancing at the clock above the stove, "Ruined? What are you talking about?"
"Mary, don't you remember yesterday afternoon while I was watching the big board price changes on the Internet Stock Page. CALTECH dropped down a point and a half and I said, "If we hedge on that one over night, I'm sure we could make a bundle. What do you think? Think we should gamble and try it? You looked up from your magazine and said, 'Sure dear anything you say.' So I bought ten thousand shares. Now this morning I have to make a short deposit, then after the price of CALTECH goes back up today, and it will, I sell the shares, take the profit then cover the short deposit." John points into his empty glass, "Now, how about that juice?"
Mary looks back at the clock, "It's nine in three minutes. You don't have time for more juice. I don't want us to be ruined. Get in there and warm up that computer." She points to the clock and then gestures for him to get up and go into his study, flinging soapsuds about the kitchen table.
"Calm down my pet. The machine is on and the page is up and waiting for nine o'clock. Now how about that juice, still got two minutes and 20 seconds." John smiles broadly.
Mary takes a quick gasp of air then hurries to the icebox. Yanking the door open she grabs the box of Fresh Florida, spins and darts over to fill his waiting glass.
Fingering the small square of buttered toast into his mouth, he chews and chews, not swallowing until the last minute begins to revolve around the face of the clock. He then drinks the glass empty, "Thirty seconds to secure our future." He smiles, ups and walks toward his office den with Mary hot on his heals, slightly shoving him forward.
Within the first minute of business, John has made his promissory deposit. Mary watches over his shoulder as he types in the amount owed: $100,000.
Mary gasps air again, "We don't have that kind of money. What are you doing?"
"It's called buying short. We have until the end of this business day to actually pay them. As soon as the price goes up, I'll sell the shares. I'll put that money in the bank to cover the price of the purchase. At the end of the day, what's left over is our profit. Understand?"
Mary crunches her nose, "Well sort of. It's like a credit card, isn't it?"
Smiling up at her, "Exactly, except we have to pay at the end of the day instead of at the end of the month."
"Well that's not so hard to understand. We pay at the end of the day. The price goes up higher than what we paid and then you sell. We get the difference as profit." Mary is re-explaining her understanding. "We watch the price changes on this stock page and when it goes up you sell. That's easy."
"Yes my dear it is easy. The hard, fun part, is deciding just when to sell. Or when to buy. You see the price changes all the time, sometimes up and sometimes down and sometimes it doesn't change at all." John is staring at the computer screen at the rows of letters and numbers rolling past.
"You're watching those little numbers? Which one is ours?" Mary puts her finger near the screen under the rows zooming across.
"They use abbreviations. Ours is CTCH. We bought it at $10.05. It had been at $12.50 for weeks. The company president died in a motorcycle wreck and the price just dropped and dropped. I heard a radio story just before the close of business yesterday that the vice-president had been promoted. So when the news hits the stock market today the price will undoubtedly go back up. And we'll make a nice piece of change." John is beaming with pride.
"If this works, we'll be rich. If you sell at $12.05, that'll be, huh, $2 times 10,000 equals $20,000. Whee, that's quite a bit of profit. The account only has five hundred in it. You sure this buying short is legal? Why doesn't everybody do this?" Mary puts her still wet hand on his cheek, drawing his face to hers.
"Yes dear, it's very legal. It's legal gambling. If the price goes down we could lose money. We'd be ruined. But don't worry, it won't," John looks back at the screen, "see, the price has jumped back to $11.25 already. By now everyone has heard the news. To be on the safe side we'll sell at $12.05, just like you said."
"Oh John, you're so smart. I knew I married a good one when I picked you. Look at that, not even 9:30 and the price is $11.55. Maybe it'll go over $12.50 with that news, maybe we should wait and see?"
John shakes his head, "No. No way, this is our first time playing the market. We'll have enough profit so we can buy other stocks. Let's just get our share and exit happily."
"Yes, you're right. No sense being greedy." Mary puts both her wet palms on his face and draws their lips together in a long, passionate kiss.
When they break and look back at the computer screen, they see only white fuzz.
"What's the deal?" John begins hitting keys then pushes the on/off button. The computer screen comes back to life, showing the array of standard programs he can use. But when he clicks the Internet Connection the screen shows "Modem in use". John looks over at the telephone, "There's something wrong with the phone, the red light connection isn't on."
Mary picks up the receiver, "There's no dial tone. The phone is dead."
John takes the receiver from her, "What'd ya mean the phone is dead?" He bangs on the dial tone button.
Mary gasps air and begins to shake his shoulders, "John how will we know when to sell?"
He drops the receiver, "I don't know. We have to be on the Internet Stock Page to buy or sell. We've got till the close of business today; maybe the phone will come back on before that. Turn on the TV, maybe there's something on the news."
Mary reaches over and ons a small television set.
Looking back across time
to 8:55 a.m. across the street from John and Mary lives Robert and Rachel Steems, a retired couple.
Rachel Steems has the monthly chore of balancing their joint checking account. Like everyone else in the city, she does all of her bill payments through the Bank's Pay Link Internet system. She is setting at the desk looking at their bank account statement displayed on their desktop computer. Her husband of forty years is across the room reading yesterday's newspaper, glancing over it he awaits her monthly chiding of his handling of their monies.
Abruptly Rachel grasps a receipt, crumples it then turns and storms over to his chair. She drops the bill in front of his face, "What's this! It's not on the computer. It was due last week. Did you pay this? It doesn't say paid. $53.50 for paints and brushes, more of your hobby? Well? Did you pay for it in cash or what?"
Taking the receipt, smoothing it, "Oh yea. I remember this. Had to do a second coat on Julia's hobbyhorse. Want it to look professional, don't I?"
"Did you pay this bill?"
"Pay? What kind of question is that? You know I don't have any money. You put it all in the savings. Where would I get any money?" Robert keeps smoothing it.
"I didn't put the money in the savings, it was that new government deal. Remember? We watch the monitor and they pay us, putting most of it in savings. Got to pay for the nursing home some day." Rachel takes the receipt from him and walks back to her desk. She slowly scans the names on the screen. "I don't see Hobby Hubby on here. That means you didn't put it on Pay Link. And you don't have any cash so it is not paid. You do this to me every month. You buy something. You don't pay cash; you don't put it on the Pay Link so it is not paid. If we don't pay our bills they could put us in a nursing home, is that what you want?" pointing her accusing finger at him.
Robert lowers the newspaper, "Oh course not lover. I guess I just forgot to tell you. Sorry."
"You forget every month. Ah! What am I going to do with you?" She pulls the receipt close to her face, "Ah! Today is the last day before late fee penalty. $25 late fees, what a waste. Do you know what $25 does to our budget? No hobby paint for you, that's what." Rachel turns back to the computer screen to find it a white fuzz. She checks her computer lines then offs it. She picks up the phone receiver to discover it is dead. "Oh great! The phone is dead. If it doesn't come back on by noon, it's a late fee for you."
Looking back across time
to 8:55a.m. across the street from John and Mary lives Earl and June Burns, high school football coach and girls gym teacher, respectively.
Earl is sitting at his desk computer doing their banking over the Internet. "Both of us being off first period is really nice. We should try to get this schedule every year."
June leans over and kisses him on the cheek, "I don't know. I had to trade Molly for Friday night dance chaperon duty. We'll see how that goes before trying another year."
"Oh pumpkins, isn't it worth having an extra hour each morning alone together. The kids at school, we have a quiet hour to ourselves. We can do anything we want to. No little bug eyes questioning our every movement," he reaches over and squeezes her butt.
"Well you do make a sound argument. What's with the bank account? It's not the end of the month. You writing bad checks or trying to fool the government again?" June peers over his shoulder.
"Remember last Friday, the van brakes were spongy and squeaking?" holding his checking book for her to see. "I took it to the shop at lunch and they put in new brakes. I forgot to note it in the checking account book."
June takes the book, "I saw that winter coat on sale Saturday. When I looked in the book, there was plenty so I bought it. But you forgot to put the brake job cost in it, so?"
"Exactly, you over drew the account. And now the government is going to make you take it back and penalize us," ginning at her foolishly.
"But it's not really my fault. It's yours. Why should I get the black mark," pouting her lips.
"We get the black marks, we're married remember. But that's not the worst. There's not enough in the checking to cover both checks, one of them is going to bounce unless I transfer some from the saving. Bouncing checks can be a felony, that's much worse than over spending."
"Felony? That doesn't sound good. There's enough in the savings isn't there?" June leans toward the screen.
Earl points at the Saving Account amount, "Plenty."
"What will they do if they see you've transferred the money?" worries June.
"Well it is our money. We earned it. Since the coat was purchased after the necessary auto maintenance, they'll probably make you take the coat back and give us black marks. But that is better than the bounced checks."
"Oh durn. I really can use a better winter coat. Can I have the store put it aside and buy it next month." June blinks her eyes at him and kisses his ear.
"If you keep that up for thirty minutes you sure can." Earl makes a purring sound like a cat and grabs her about the waist and pulls her down to the floor where they proceed to pleasure each other.
When Earl returns to the computer screen it is a white fuzz. He re-boots the computer, but each time he tries to connect to the Internet the computer says, "Modem in use." And when he checks the telephone, he finds it is dead. He hands June the phone, "It's dead. If we don't get down to the main bank quick, so will we be."
June re-buttons her blouse, "It's our money right? We can transfer from the savings to the checking at the main bank, can't we?"
Earl shakes his head, "Honestly I don't know."
Looking back across time
to 8:55a.m. across the street from John and Mary lives Mr. Jason Tibbs, corner grocery store owner/operator. Every Tuesday morning Mr. Tibbs must send his order for supplies over the Internet to the Warehouse Wholesaler between 9:00 and 9:30 a.m. This allows the clerks to have his merchandise for the next week ready for delivery by the end of the day. If his order is not received on time, he must wait until the next week to re-order.
Mr. Tibbs always has his weekly supply order ready before he retires on Monday nights. Mr. Tibbs sets and a manual and an electric alarm clock for 8a.m. each morning. Mr. Jason Tibbs has not missed placing a supply order on time for over ten years. He can not afford to, for his store is so small that there is no space for inventory storage. By the time the new supplies arrive Tuesday evenings, his shelves are practically bare.
This day will end his perfect ordering record. And a week of barren shelves will cause a majority of his regular customers to begin shopping at the large mall stores. Within two months Mr. Jason Tibbs will have to file for bankruptcy. Mr. Tibbs will lose his store because he did not send his supply list over the Internet five seconds sooner. He was double checking the total cost when his computer screen went white fuzz. His phone line went dead.
US Congressman Wills' Office
Tuesday 1p.m. November 7, 2000
"Bernice, can you believe this? That was the tenth call this morning about the phones being out. What do they expect him to do about it anyway? The phone company has repairmen don't they." Shirly quickly scribbles a name, the number, the address and nature of the call.
The phone rings again.
Shirly hands her coffee cup to Bernice, "Do me a favor, find some whiskey to wake up that brown liquid you call coffee. I'm not use to so many people yelling at me on the same day."
Bernice takes the cup, "You got to be kidding. One whiff of booze on your breath and you'll be watching a monitor instead of this cushy phone-answering gig. So you get a few moans and groans. Isn't that big salary worth it?"
"Yea I guess you got a good point. And it's not their fault. I'd be calling and complaining to my congressman too if my phone went out and I lost a bundle on the market." Shirly picks up the receiver, "Congressman Wills' office. How may we help you today?" Shirly writes down another name and number. "I'm sorry for your phone trouble mame, but you should be contacting the Phone Company, this sounds like a problem they can fix. It's not the government's job to fix phones or call the Phone Company for you."
Bernice fills two cups with coffee from the Brewmaster on the table in the corner. She takes them back to Shirly, placing one close to the writing pad. She then sits down in the large chair beside the desk and sips and looks at the complaint on the pad.
"Well mame you may have a valid point there. If the Phone Company is not co-operating, not giving you any reason for the outage or when the lines will be fixed, then maybe this office can act as a go-between. Congressman Wills should be in this later this afternoon. I will give him your message. When he determines the correct course of action, someone from this office will inform you. Thank you mame for your continued support. Good day." She hangs up, then takes the coffee cup, drinking down a large gulp. "Wheeee, smooth. Kentucky bonded?"
"In your dreams missy. Maybe you'd chance it, but not this girl. My neighbor has one of those new monitoring jobs. She's stuck at home all day, watching three different sets. She has to write a summary report at the end of the day on what the people on those monitoring sets were doing. That's one job that would drive me nuts in a week. You want some whiskey, go down to the bar at lunch, just don't tell me about it. I aign't chancing this cushy job by being an informed accessory." Bernice takes a large sip of coffee, "Ummm mmm good to the very last drop."
Just then the outer hallway door opens and a large man carrying an overcoat and briefcase smiles his way in.
Shirly sits erect, "Good afternoon sir. Had a nice luncheon with the vice president I trust?"
Dropping the briefcase and coat in an empty chair, "Quite the story teller, that Boss Bacon. Had me laughing most of the meal. Surprised I didn't upchuck. Har har har, that would have made the lunch complete. Har har har." Looking at Bernice, "That fresh coffee?"
"Yes sir, made a pot for lunch, care for a cup?" rising out of her chair and walking over to the Brewmaster in the corner.
"That would be nice, thanks dear." Taking a small stack of envelopes from the in box marked Wills, he asks, "Any calls?"
"Well sir, to be honest the phone has not stopped ringing all morning," she points to the tabulation figures on her writing pad. "Twelve complaints about the phone company."
Raising his eyebrows, "Twelve different people?"
"Well, yes sir I think so. I've their names and addresses," she hands him up the tablet.