He knew the routine, having had it drilled into him over the years. Her doggedness was unrelenting and just the sound of her voice was enough for him to spring into the proper healthy posture. Standing up tall, he squared up his chin and drew his shoulders back. Then he thrust out his chest just as he had been taught to stand at attention at the academy. The subtle difference was the added rocking of his pelvis forward that caused his heels to rise up off the floor.

 
Author's Note: If asked, I’d have to say my life is an enactment of just about every story I’ve ever read, or so it would seem to me. Sort of like life imitating fiction rather than the other way around. I know the inverted logic sounds kind of screwy, but that’s how I feel whenever I pick up a book to read. I see all too much of my own life in the plot and as I follow the protagonist’s trials and tribulations I think to myself, “Hey, that’s me.” Sound familiar? If so, then you know there is a good side to thinking as I do, as well as a bad.

So on that note, I offer this story as a reminder. That no matter what misfortune lay in wait for you, there is always the hope that you too might find the courage to free yourself from the bondage and find your redemption. Leastwise that’s what I, josie, hope you’ll get from this story. (*_*)
 
 
Part I Frantic Morning
 
Chapter I
 
 
“. . . Times are dark. But every shadow no matter how deep is threatened by morning light.” D. Aronofsky
 
 
I’d like you to meet Barbara Stanton. The charismatic, forty-something, and still dazzling beauty dressed in nurse’s whites. Sitting behind the desk in her home office she looks like the archetype health professional - concerned, dedicated and with her good looks, quite an easy pill to swallow. But don’t let her good looks get the better of you. Should you suddenly find yourself stranded on an African savanna alone with a Cheetah looking to feed her pups, you’d stand a better chance of surviving the night than you would with this cold-blooded hunter on the prowl. So be warned and be thankful you’re not the prospective client sitting across from her. Like the unsuspecting Mrs. Whipple, the elderly, though dignified woman she is studying with the steely-eyed determination of an opportunist sizing up her mark.

More precisely her interest isn’t in Mrs. Whipple as such, but her young nephew, Patrick, the young man standing alongside her. At the moment the skittish lad looks rather put upon having to stand up straight and tall on behest of his aunt in only his cotton briefs. Not that he looks like the prized trophy a skilled hunter like our attractive, steely-eye opportunist would want to snare in her trap. Comely to be certain, but topping in at a whopping 52 kg and thin as a wafer, he isn’t much to bring home for dinner, unless she has a hankering for skin n’ bone.

Mrs. Whipple, Edith to her friends, has just brought young Patrick in to see Ms. Stanton, a Homeopathic practitioner located not far from her home. Edith is an honest woman, forthright to a fault, and is currently describing the symptoms her poor nephew suffers while Ms. Stanton encourages her to continue to confide. However, even though she is signaling her ‘trust me Edith, I can help’ message, she knew there is nothing wrong with Patrick. At least nothing sufficient time and a little patience won’t fix.

The doctor’s findings and her assessment confirm it. Patrick is completely normal and healthy. Even though a boy of his age still wetting the bed can be a sign of more serious problems this is not always the case. Other factors must be considered as the probable cause. Like the trauma resulting from the recent death of his mother or his having to start a new life with a new care provider are just some of the possible factors to consider in determining the source of this kind of problem. The doctor has stated as much in his medical report if only Edith was of a mind to listen.

So while Mrs. Whipple is a lady of good character and honest intentions, she does have a slight flaw. Her pride often gets in the way, causing her to make decisions that do not seem to be in either her, or her nephew’s best interests. In this instance, she believes he suffers from some sort of “lingering malaise,” as she calls it, and his bedwetting is a symptom of his condition. A contrary opinion to that held by the doctor, but one to which she is stubbornly holding fast. That’s why she feels prompted to seek out this time honored and noble profession of Homeopathy as an alternative solution. A decision guided more by pride than sound reason, and this weakness in her character is about to be exploited by a charlatan.

Ms. Stanton, Barbara to her friends, wouldn’t describe herself in quite those same terms of course. In her way of thinking she’s just an enterprising woman looking to capitalize on a market and position herself to take advantage of all the lucrative opportunities. It is a free and open marketplace after all. She had learned as much at the top-notch university she’d attended. Then put into practice producing a one-of-a-kind quality product and reaping her justly earned profits in the marketplace. Or more specifically, in the gambling Mecca of Las Oasis.

Yet business degrees and the like do not in themselves breed success. That takes salesmanship, and that’s what our buxom and beautiful blond bombshell with a ton of grit has in abundance. She’s suave down to her hair follicles and knows how to target and then pull the trigger on her unsuspecting clientele. Yes, she is in fact quite formidable in that regard. Hardly a match for the unsuspecting Mrs. Whipple. The proud, though lonely woman sitting across from her who still longs for things too shameful to own and too prideful to admit even if she’s of a mind to do so.

“Mrs. Whipple . . .,” she feigned her affection, leaning in to take her hand like some starry-eyed Don Juan. “Edith, if you’ll allow me to be so forward. I can see that you’re a very lovely, conscientious woman, and you’re right to have come to me. What does a doctor know other than measurements of dots on a chart when the living, breathing proof stands beneath his nose? His bedwetting, frail stature and languid state are all signs of malaise you so aptly describe.”

“Yes, you are right to have come to me because unlike providing dots on a chart, homeopathy provides a time-tested and proven strategy to remediate the causes. But I must warn you, if you’re looking for immediate results you’ve come to the wrong place. A return to good health is often a long and difficult course. It requires a commitment that carries well beyond the ordinary to establish good health habits, and it certainly can’t be done without your full, unremitting support,” she concluded, and then waited expectantly for her response.

Unfortunately, the dear woman couldn’t find the words. She was so drawn by the allure and determination of this resolute woman that all she could manage was a faint nod. She seemed to her a world onto her own, a woman in full charge with a pair of cool blue eyes that cut through the veneer and surveyed the landscape down to her very core. She found the look disarming and feeling exposed she defensively lowered her eyes as if to ward her off. While at the same time her deepening flush continued to telegraph a homing signal that invited the intruder in.
 
 
Three years later . . .
 
Inside the barbershop Patrick sat feeling a tinge of anticipation as Mr. Milford diligently clipped away. He had been waiting for this moment for a long time and it was important that his new haircut look just right. High and tight on the sides, short and flat on top was the style he wanted. Just as Sgt. Web was fond of saying; “Make it smart and clean, with a touch of Vitalis to enhance the sheen.”

It wasn’t the common fashion of the day. The 60’s was the age of long hair after all, and not a style you were likely to see worn on the street, nor on the gentlemen in his aunt’s variety magazines. It was however the fashion of choice in the ranks of the Corps, where to strike a sharp pose meant more than a starched collar and a red neck. One had to measure-up, wear the flag and a flattop in honor of apple pie and motherhood, country and corps.

Looking in the mirror he saw Mr. Milford all hands and scissors standing over him. His aunt also stood close by, holding his hand as she admonished him like she would a much younger boy. “Sit up straight;” “chin square;” “no slouching” was her way of making it clear that even in this male sanctuary she remained in full charge. He didn’t like being dismissed so easily, but that was her way. She was a very direct woman.

There was however some comfort in knowing she was equally succinct with Mr. Milford. He’d trim here, cut off there, always with a prompt “yes ma’am” in his proper way. Always respectful, he’d extend every curtsey to her and did exactly as he was told. Then to keep himself in her good graces, he was quick to suit his treatment of young Patrick to her liking.

Of course, Mr. Milford was a fair man and a good barber too. As old Sgt. Web would say, “. . . A man got his 2-bucks worth before he was through. He charges a fair price for the hack and some chat, all in 10 minutes you can’t beat that. With the talc and Vitalis tossed in for free, a damn fair deal, if you ask me.” That is, unless payment was extracted in blood.

Certainly having Mr. Milford chose to call him “Patty” in lieu of his name made it seem like an old fashion bloodletting. Indeed, with the men sitting round listening as they waited their turn, it was a barbarous affair on par with a medieval phlebotomy. One moment he’d be made to sit up tall, stiff and erect at the behest of his aunt. Then the next moment he’d soften and recede into a nub as Mr. Milford directed the angle of his chin and added “chin up Sweetie.” Intended or not, he felt 5 centimeters shorter than his already diminutive size, and five years younger than his seventeen years when he finally rose up out of that chair.

Patrick looked at himself in the mirror as his aunt whisked away debris that still clung to his tank top and shorts. From the sound of the snickering heard from those waiting their turn it was obvious the improvement he had hoped for had missed the mark. Losing his long hair and his dignity too was more than he had bargained for. It was a one-two combination of blows to his already frail adolescent confidence and the knock-out blow, the snide murmurings behind his back. All this and all he had wanted was to measure-up to the other boys at school, and in the process, hopefully, reinvent himself to help bolster his esteem. Instead he ended up having made matters worse. Now, the best he could do was hope his disappointment didn’t show.

Perhaps he should have listened to his aunt. If he had taken her advice and not cut his long hair the disastrous consequences wouldn’t be staring back at him in the mirror, nor would Mr. Milford. The good and honest man now standing behind him was trying in earnest to keep the smirk off his face. Beside him was his aunt wearing her smile like a Kabuki mask while he, dressed in a tank-top and shorts looked a pittance.

That’s not to speak badly of him and his clothes were not all that surprising given the hot Arizona climate. Perhaps the fashion was a bit juvenile given his age, but functional and decent nonetheless. Still, there was something about the composition that made it a very contrary picture. Like the white cotton tank-top that clung so snugly to his willowy frame he could see his pec’s jutting out like pebbles in the snow. Likewise, his knee socks and the jersey shorts gathered high around the midriff exaggerated his natural boyish pigeon-toe and showcased his gangly legs; garishly long and lean and epicene. Now, to add further insult to injury, his closely cropped flattop was as smooth as the end table that held his auntie’s tea.

Now, why would anyone wonder what the grinning and the whisperings were all about! Looking as he did, he didn’t make the bold statement of a fearless warrior. He looked an exhibition of a pitiable wimp to all but his dear aunt, who could only see the disappointment written on his drawn face. A thoughtful and caring woman by a factor of two, she quickly stepped in to bolster his lost esteem. Without fear of looking too patronizing she held him close, pressing his face to her bosom and told her “dear Patty” how grown-up and manly he looked.

You’d expect nothing less of her of course. After all, her only interest was for his health and welfare and, least we forget, he was a sickly boy. A boy in therapy to cure his “malaise,” she scarcely had enough of herself to give. That’s a lot to put on the plate of a woman with no experience raising children of her own. Especially at this stage in life, when most would prefer to spend their leisurely years raising prized tulips and not worrying about clean clothes for school or seeing to a child’s proper bath.

Nevertheless that didn’t deterred her from the job she had to do. Which she did fueled by her pride and, let’s not forget, the examples set by those pictured in the pages of her variety magazines. Not the finest example for childrearing, but then again, the well-groomed young men pictured in her magazines certainly could teach the uncouth mongrels sitting around the barber shop a thing or two. With their made-for-the-camera smiles and gay attire they put the gentle in gentlemanly. Each pictured as if resigned to their vulnerabilities, with intransigent mothers or wives standing close by to handle the challenges. Just the way it should be, that is, if we want fewer problems in the world.

So with her chin firmed up she stood by equally intransigent prepared to meet the challenge. Wanting nothing more than to demand Mr. Milford repair the damages that very instant. But she knew there was no way to bring back to life those beautiful long locks she so enjoyed brushing after Patrick’s bath. The best she could do was to show these ignorant men, indeed, all men that she didn’t give a hoot for their chauvinist, brutish male opinion - least of all those concerning her “beautiful” nephew, and so she did.

“Thank you, Sir,” she spoke up for all to hear, then extended the courtesy of her most tempered veneer.

“Well, there you are then, my good boy,” Mr. Milford flippantly replied, with a crooked smile that looked rather snide. With his mutton jowls creased from his ears to his chin, he looked rather daft with that foolhardy grin. Something that hadn’t gone unnoticed!

Not that it mattered one-iota to this proud woman. Neither did the mumblings going round as she reached into her purse for a tissue to hand to Mr. Milford, and along with it, his dish of comeuppance. “Mr. Milford, I would suggest you wipe that smug off your face before someone mistakes you for a clever man. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve an appointment. Come along, Patty. You know Ms. Stanton will not forgive tardiness.”

Mr. Milford stood dumbfounded, the room grew quiet and Edith relished her moment. As for Patrick, he knew she was right in addressing Mr. Milford, just as she was right about Ms. Stanton. They would have to hurry, and thankfully so. In truth, he wanted out from under the scrutiny and the embarrassment as quickly as his “corrective” heels could carry him.

Not so his aunt. She might have been elderly, but not senile nor simple-minded as some might have mistaken her to be. After all, she had been a head librarian for 37 years, and a stickler for proper etiquette her library had been a very well-mannered place. So it fit that she would have as high a regard for herself as she did for the civility of a bygone era. Much like the common courtesy extended to a lady as she walked into a room and simply by virtue of her presence seized the moment, with never a need to hurry.

A courtesy you’re not likely to see extended nowadays, but one she expected nonetheless. Especially from the men in the shop, and particularly now, as she took her nephew in hand, encouraged him to stand tall and slowly paraded past the seated gentlemen on their way out the door. Then asking him to hold her purse so she could open the door for him to pass, they departed as they had entered. Only this time as they passed through the door, it was with an accompanying chorus of laughter.
 
 
Chapter II
 
 
 Edith had always found Sunday afternoons the best time to travel the distance down Bancroft Lane. This was especially true in the spring, when the weather afforded families an opportunity to be out and about to see and be seen after morning church. She was of course a most thorough driver. Cautious? You bet, but not like the hurried gentleman angrily tooting the horn behind her might indicate. Not that it mattered to her. She wasn’t about to make way for the gentleman when he could just as well wait for her to ready herself before she drove on.

It might have taken her longer than most to travel the short distance to Barbara’s home, but at least she and her nephew would be seen and have time to smile at the gawkers as she puttered along on her way to their appointment. Edith wanted everyone to know she was rightfully proud of her nephew. She just wished she had a better stage to make the presentation other than her rickety old Renault.

Just as the car might suggest, Edith Whipple was not a wealthy lady. An unmarried woman advanced in years she had worked a lifetime to afford her small two bedroom cottage. Other than an old Renault on its last legs, and her meager savings she had little else other than a monthly stipend the government afforded her. Still, it was enough for her to provide for the needs of her late sister’s son. She even managed to have enough to cover the services of Ms. Stanton. An extraordinary expense, but well worth the money as we shall soon see.

Barbara Stanton’s two-story, thatched roof cottage was situated nicely amidst the Ash and Oak with a beautifully landscaped yard. The gated white lattice fence, large portico and the business sign hanging over the entrance set it apart from others along the older middle class neighborhood. Around the back of the house was a very busy place. There was a greenhouse, herb garden and a playground with a sand box and other typical fare you would expect to find at a facility catering to the needs of children. Nevertheless, everything was orderly and well presented. No less so than the inside of her beautiful ornate house, and in a like manner, Barbara herself.

In many ways, Barbara Stanton had much in common with Edith. Middle-aged and unmarried, she too was very direct and succinct in her temperament and it served her well. Her no nonsense manner was a much sought after quality in her line of work and mothers paid well for her help. Probably a bit more than Edith was able to afford, but for the exceptional help, a sacrifice she was willing to make.

As a student of this wondrous alchemy of science and philosophy, Ms. Stanton used every element of the human condition to help transform the ailing to the fit. Edith hadn’t a doubt that she understood what ails children, and felt she could do no better. Of course, it helped that they got along so very well, seeing things eye to eye as it were. From the austere way she dealt with dawdling children to her perceptible “purrrr” when she put her Patty through his paces. The fact that she found such pleasure in helping him was just icing on the (patty) cake as far as she was concerned. It didn’t matter that he was every bit a healthy boy. She agreed with Barbara without demur and followed her prescribed cures to the letter.

Edith and her nephew arrived not a moment too soon for their afternoon appointment. They entered the back gate and down the stone path that led directly to Barbara’s office. Edith wore a full-length floral print dress fashionably hemmed at the ankles, with a rash of short, tightly woven curls in her newly permed gray hair.

In all manner of ways she looked quite fashionable. Exactly the way she always wanted to appear, especially when coming to see Ms. Stanton. Stylist though unassuming, while beneath mingled the flowery scent of Civet, Rosewood and Neroli. Though faint, she had been careful to place the inviting fragrance quite strategically. Adding a bouquet to the air that was decidedly more compelling than the honeysuckle that blossomed along the path that led up to Barbara’s door.

Although only as a formality, Edith rang the bell and then entered finding Ms. Stanton on the phone just concluding her conversation with a Mrs. Bottomly. Behind her was the book case brimming with leather bound journals and a work area where scattered about were all the tools of an alchemist trade. On the walls hung framed portraits of delicate young faces, presumably of previous clients. All were young with beautifully painted faces, long curly hair, pouting red lips and a small pearl earring in just one ear.

Edith waited while young Patrick perused the assortment of magazines, picking up an older issue of Muscle & Fitness, a picture of his hero, Sgt. Rock, on the cover. A few moments later Ms. Stanton turned to greet them dressed in her customary nursing whites and 5 inch pumps that showcased her voluptuous figure. A tall, full figured woman she looked quite imposing in that snugly fit uniform. Perched high upon her platform heels she looked awe-inspiring to the boy. To his aunt she looked stunningly beautiful. To the public safety inspector she looked a menace to airborne traffic, and with her extraordinarily preponderate bust, she looked a threat to shoot down anything in range with exploding buttons from her bodice.

The sight of her always weakened the knees of young Patrick Whipple, and although not for the same reasons, his aunt’s as well. He looked down, while she eagerly embraced Barbara’s penetrating smile. In an unexpected way she found a lot to like in this attractive woman who inspired such awe in her nephew and reverence from her. Nor could she help but blush just a little when she took her hand in greeting at her office door.

“Edith, so nice to see you,” she fawned. “You’re looking simply divine as usual, and isn’t that Chanel in the air? My, my, how luscious.”

Keep in mind, Barbara Stanton was a very assertive and straight forward person, and she handled herself with a style and sense of savoir faire that could convince a pauper to give up a winning lottery ticket. She certainly had no problem tickling Edith’s fancy. Indeed, anymore would have had Edith swooning at her feet. “. . . Out for a bit of mischief I see . . . you naughty girl!”

Then with an exaggerated batting of the lashes she swooped in and wrapped her arms around her as if to mug her of her jewels. “And Patty, you look particularly dashing and debonair with your new haircut I must say.”

“Oh, isn’t he though?”

“Definitely,” Barbara added, making reference to the magazine he still held in his hand. “And Sgt. Rock thought he had cornered the market on machismo.”

“Yes, so grown-up and manly.” Edith followed, still showing concern for her nephew’s sensitivity on the matter. “A soldier’s soldier, he’s sure to be a hit at the academy.”

“Yes, I think he now measures up quite well. I can scarcely imagine a boy could look more charming.”

“Charming . . !” Patrick slowly started to wilt just from the sound of it. His smart posture and the lines on his face drew down to form a more sullen symmetry as he slumped forward. This is not at all what he wanted. He just wanted to measure up, for everyone to stop calling him “String-Bean,” “Beanstalk,” “twig” and yes, “Sissy.” But he wasn’t a sissy. He was just a misfit kid and, unfortunately, his new haircut hadn’t changed that. If the other cadets at the academy were unmercifully cruel toward him before, what were they going to think of him now?

“But Ms. Stanton, Dobb’s is a Military Academy,” he sounded ever so inconsolable, slumping even lower.

“Patty, don’t slouch, you know it’s so unhealthy.” She had gone from merry-andrew to harpy in an instant. Once buoyant, she was now gnashing her teeth showing impatience with him. Even though he had been lax but a moment it was something she wasn’t going to tolerate even for a second. “Chin up, shoulders back, thrust forward; good heavens you’d think I wouldn’t have to correct you by now.”

He knew the routine having it drilled into him over the years. Her doggedness was unrelenting and just the sound of her voice was enough for him to spring into the proper healthy posture. Standing up tall, he squared up his chin and drew his shoulders back. Then he thrust out his chest just as he had been taught to stand at attention at the academy. The subtle difference was the added rocking of his pelvis slightly forward, caused his heels to rise up off the floor.

She called this Homeostasis. Patrick called it torture. However, she insisted standing flat-footed put inordinate pressure on the spine causing unneeded stress. Thus corrective measures were needed to allow the legs to absorb more of the load. Which in practical terms meant flat sole sneakers and sandals were out, while corrective heels were in. Just an added 2” in height to correct the imbalance, and nylon socks, light-weight and airy for the sake of good hygiene in the hot desert climate.

“That’s why I’m never without my heels . . . the higher the better, Sweetie!” she would oft declare. The healthy life was not an easy one, nothing really worthwhile ever is. “No pain, no gain,” was Barbara’s motto, and young Patrick couldn’t have agreed more.

Actually it took more stamina then he could mister for the longest while. Although like everything else required of him it eventually became second nature, exactly as Ms. Stanton prescribed. All reinforced by her unrelenting chant now firmly etched between his ears. “Your carriage and stride managed in just the right way, effortless and fluent with just a touch of sashay.”

That was the problem at school. The repetitions and the dogma had somehow reconfigured his internal wiring to maintain the posture whether dressed in his elevated shoes or not. All becoming so automatic it seemed almost natural. An especially difficult problem when dressed down for phys-ed. No matter how often his instructor yelled at him he’d more oft than not forget, finding himself running the obstacle course or marching around the parade field on his toes.

With rangy neck and limbs of a gazelle in mid flight, it was not a pretty picture. The ridicule was merciless, and as you might suspect, his platoon wasn’t too happy about having to run the extra laps just because he forgot. All the way around the parade field it was to the platoon leader’s quick-time cadence, “I’m no genius, but I know, Private Whipple has got’ta go. Sound off . . .”

“Got’ta go!” Well, you can see where he fell in the collegial ranks. Ms. Stanton of course thought of it in better regarded terms. She wanted to impress upon him that there was no shame in being different, no matter how complimentary or rude was the thought or expression.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve said it a hundred times,” Ms. Stanton curtly followed. “You needn’t feel ashamed because the boys notice you at school. I mean Sergeant Rock isn’t ashamed because boys notice him,” she said, making a pointed reference to the magazine he still held.

“He’s even answered your fan club mail and told you how appreciative he is for you’re having noticed him. Remember what he said? He called you the next great Super-Trooper and was pleased as punch that all his little Musclemaniac’s the world over admired his beautiful muscles.”

“What’s more, he said that it isn’t how big your muscles are that that makes one a beautiful person. It’s living healthy and remaining true to the cause regardless of the outcome that makes a person worth remembering.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“No buts,” she interrupted. “He’s proud of the way he looks. Just as he’s proud of his outlook on life and the way he lives. He wants to share it with everyone. That’s why he poses. So you can see his beauty and want to be like him. And, I dare say, find him attractive if you are so inclined. To feel so flattered by the attention is a health outlook. One that gorgeous hunk Mr. Rock proudly embraces and so such you.”

“But the boys a school, they . . .”

“. . . What? Call you Sissy, Beanstalk? Nonsense! That shouldn’t bother you any more than they should be bothered when you call them Bobble Heads or Red Neck’s or whatever. Besides, between you and me, they’re just jealous,” she said with a lofty smile that had ‘Got yah!’ written all over it. “That’s nothing to hang your head about. You should feel proud and want to show everyone what a special young man you are.”

“Now enough of this!” she sounded off quite adamantly, leaving little room to negotiate. “I think you might feel a lot better about yourself if you were to run along and change into your trunks, then go through your floor exercises for your aunt and me. I’ll put on a record and you can give us a show.”

Barbara Stanton certainly had a way about her when it came to managing children, and Edith couldn’t help but marvel at her tact. No less impressive was her ability to drum into their heads the importance of healthy habits, a healthy body and a healthy outlook. That’s why she brought Patrick every week to see her, because she believed in the gospel of good health Barbara preached. Always insisting upon perfection regardless, offering little wiggle room for her petitioning dear to haggle.

Edith sat on a chair next to the phonograph while Ms. Stanton stood alongside waiting Patrick’s return. “I’m sorry I have to be so direct with your nephew, Edith.” She offered in feigned contrition. Then feeling the moment right for a more personal exchange, she walked behind where Edith sat and began to gently massage the aged woman’s neck and shoulders.

It was an assertive gesture that caught the startled Mrs. Whipple completely off her guard. Exactly as Barbara had planned, and carefully calculated down to Edith’s responding shutter and uncomfortable wince. Obviously Barbara understood the thoughts and emotional underpinnings of Patrick’s proud and wistful aunt quite well. In fact, she found her such an easy read that there was a notable air of brashness about her as she began to execute her wily plan. Just have a listen.

“Oh my, but you’re tense. Let me help you relax. Remember, I’m an expert on what ails the body you know.”

Edith looked up not knowing how she should respond. This was certainly out of the ordinary to be given this kind of attention, especially from a woman so deferential to proper decorum. It was also an intrusion into her privacy. Something she was very protective of and kept closely guarded from the outside world. “Have confidence darling, my magic fingers know how to bring relief to a woman’s body.”

Her touch was indeed very firm and encompassing. And as her fingers kneaded here, lingered there her touch grew warm and sensual. “I know he’s a sensitive boy and offends so easily. Yet he can’t go about feeling sorry for himself simply because he made a mistake in cutting off his beautiful hair.”

“O-o-ooh, no apology is necessary. Everything was appropriately in line with his treatment program.” Edith followed, now feeling somewhat aroused by the touch, and ashamed she felt that way. Feelings that a guarded woman with secrets would want to keep hidden from prying eyes. “Like cures like, right Ms. Stanton?”

“Yes Mrs. Whipple, like cures like. As I’ve explained, to cure his condition we endeavor to stimulate the body’s natural responses by administering a measured dose of what is causing the affliction. We also want to free up the body from wasted expenditure of resources and energy needed to restore him to good health. Just imagine the resources wasted worrying about what others may think, or how he sees himself. If we can harness all that energy, recovery will follow.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Edith quickly replied. “He should know it’s unhealthy to waste his energy sulking about his new haircut. After all, it’s such a silly thing. Still . . .” she hedged, “perhaps I should have tried harder to convince him not to cut his hair. Truthful, I do so miss it.”

“I know you do, Edith,” she answered while continuing to rub slowly along the length of her shoulders and as far down as her long red nails dare reach. “I miss it too. It’s so sad you won’t have it to care for any longer. And poor me, I just bought a lovely brush set as a gift for his birthday. It would have been an ideal gift, don’t you agree? No matter, it can be exchanged. A pearl earring would probably have been a better choice anyway.”

Startled by the remark Edith tugged with a flinch causing the top buttons of her blouse to come undone, exposing an immodest portion of her brassiere. She looked up at Barbara, her brows crossed, but unable to utter the words “pearl earring” that refused to let go of her tongue.

“Oh dear,” Ms. Stanton sought to ameliorate Edith’s concerns. “I’m sorry. Allow me to button that for you.”

Now Edith Whipple was a pragmatic woman. She certainly understood it was far easier from Barbara’s vantage point to redo what she had undone. Still, as open-minded as she felt herself to be, it was hard to believe this was an entirely appropriate thing to do. It was also an unwarranted intrusion on her privacy. Not that she had a choice in the matter. Barbara had already draped her head alongside hers, and wrapped both her arms across her heaving bosom.

Her fingers knew exactly where to touch Edith’s deeply heaving flesh. A well placed pressing of the palm here, a swirling of the finger tip there, all decidedly accidental of course, and in line with her work. Then leaning in still further, she pressed her nose in the deep V’ed canvass of her brassiere and released a pent-up sigh, “ummm, it is Chanel, how lovely.”

Edith, fully aware of the circumstance knew well how she should respond. However, at the moment all discretion and diplomacy seemed lost to her. Her defensive wall had been breached and now exposed like a raw nerve she could scarcely move nor breathe.

Remember, our good Mrs. Whipple as dear as she could be, was not a person without her flaws. Her stubborn pride often got in the way, sometimes between her good common sense and doing the right thing, as in now! Since her privacy was so important to her, she should have told the lady to back off and give her space. But she didn’t, because behind that great walled fortress, the wall of pride that was Mrs. Whipple, there was another who fell in a swoon as Barbara’s lips lingered so dangerously close. It was the part of her who suffered those feelings too shameful to own and too prideful to admit that she carefully kept hidden from the light of day. Hidden, but felt nonetheless in that wicked, guilty flutter deep in her gut.

In a sense we could say she was a woman of two minds. Much like us all I suppose. One mind suffered those shameful longings, the other a fortress that kept others from seeing what she was too ashamed to own. Mrs. Pride and Mrs. Longing, the two minds of one woman, and at the moment, a woman in turmoil.

So you see, nothing is quite as simple and straightforward as it may seem. It’s a complex world out there, and in here too. Not so black and white, and in Mrs. Whipple’s case the grays were driving her to the brink of collapse as Barbara toyed with her prey as a cat might a mouse.

A game she played expertly, knowing full well what she was doing. A baiting game that was driving the conflicted Mrs. Whipple to distraction, neither hearing Patrick quietly tip-toe back into the room. It was only a last second creak of a floorboard that drew Barbara’s attention, causing her jump with a start. “. . . There now, the sales tag is no longer visible,” she hurriedly responded, scrambling to regain her composure.

Of course at the moment Patrick looked as if he were having a bit of a battle of his own and wasn’t paying attention to anything else. Dressed or undressed as he was, he carried in the neatly folded stack of his clothes with his heeled loafers on top and set them on Barbara’s desk. Then with a faint display of courage, he readied himself and took up a classic Front Double Bicep Pose, on his toes!

Barbara hurriedly started the phonograph then took up a chair close beside Mrs. Whipple. Situating herself comfortably with the hem of her short dress rising disreputably high up her thigh, she clutched the lady’s hand and positioned it upon her lap, between her parted thighs!

Poor Mrs. Whipple, her Mrs. Longing was a flutter over those wondrous feeling that percolated like boiling water through her veins. While on the inside, her Mrs. Pride was affright. Of course it happens on occasion that one woman would hold the hand of another on her lap. That was not unusual, but between her parted thighs?

The disgrace of it! She was appalled and thought to remove her hand that very instant, and would’ve done so had her hand not been held so tightly. To pull away would certainly have caused a scene - or worse, pulled her out of her chair. There was nothing for her to do but hold her breath and give in. Which she did, and all the while Barbara beamed a smile that stretched the length of a Buick, while she fidgeted and squirmed like a pre-teen sitting in the front row of a pop concert. Then as Patrick began to run through his paces, she pressed down firmly on Edith’s hand.

I was quite a “cata-gasmic” moment for poor Mrs. Whipple. She was so consumed by the radiant warmth felt against the back of her hand she could focus on little else, including Patrick. Dressed in his posing trunks he made quite a heated impression, but nothing compared to the blaze that radiated up her arm, and oddly, down to her loins! Yip, below the billowy froth and right to the bottom of the deep blue sea. Leaving her breathless and transfixed, with only the hope that the agitate sea didn’t seep out and soil her new dress.

Wholly consumed by his own kind of tumultuous sea, Patrick chose not to look the way of his approving audience. Instead his thoughts were on the satin sheen of his tight red trunks that left so little to the imagination. Not that he had much to hide. That part of him neither time nor circumstance had ever caused much to grow. Much like his scrawny, muscle-less body there wasn’t a rip, ripple or bulge anywhere to be seen other than pelvic, rib and clavicle bone. Despite his efforts or his want to look like the other boys at school, or his hero Sgt. Rock, his muscles never swelled nor did his cup ever runneth over.

Still he tried his best to emulate his hero just like the special boy Ms. Stanton said he was. As he ran through his routines to the rhythm of the song and Barbara’s ooooh and aaaah’s, he stressed and strained through each repetition to get some muscle, any muscle to cause a ripple. The only thing he got for his efforts was the nuance of a bulge beneath his puffy nipples while executing a splendid rendition of a Front Lad Spread. All very disheartening to be sure, but still he held his head up, and when he was done he took a bow worthy any pigeon-toed, Muscle & Fitness cover boy with a flattop worth his salt.

“Bravo - bravo,” Barbara stood up to clap giving Edith a moment to breathe coming not a moment to soon. As she started off to give the dear boy a hug, she caught a glimpse of Edith out of the corner of her eye pretending to wipe her nose with the back of her scented hand. She crooked a smile then wanting to sweeten her plate of cheek and grit she sought to add a pinch of wickedness and turned to the boy. “Well, you were right Patty. The long hair was a bit suspect, whereas this manly flattop makes a commanding statement.” Then leaning in, she firmly pinched his rump then quickly saved and filed his startled look to memory. “At school, all those little Bobble Heads are going to be bobbing and throbbing with envy.”

She gave Patrick the stiff salute as was the fashion at the academy and he returned her smile. Apparently he had missed some of what she had said and all of what had been implied had bounced off that table top head of his. She also felt fortunate that Edith had been temporary distracted as well. She had been facing away and was too busy removing the evidence of her distress off her dress to hear. With her passions momentarily quelled she now felt a tinge of guilt, realizing she had probably been a little too brash. Her only hope was that she would be more circumspect in the future as she still had a long day to go.

After having had time to compose herself, Edith came over to congratulate her nephew for his fine performance before offering a warm smile to Mrs. Stanton. “Well then, enough dally.” Barbara commanded with a decidedly change in tenor in her voice. “Let’s get started.”

As was expected of her, Edith promptly went to retrieve the Program log she had brought with her and handed it to the suddenly terse Ms. Stanton. “First off, I’m afraid I had to reschedule Nicholas Bottomly because he was unable to attend his usual Saturday appointment. So as I expect him at three, I suppose we might be a bit pressed for time. Let’s you and I have a look at Patty’s Program Log and Patty, you can wait in the Treatment Room while your aunt and I discuss the findings.”

Patrick picked up his pile of clothes, his shoes with the magazine on top and left Ms. Stanton’s office. The Treatment Room located across the hall had become like a second home to him. Originally the Family Room, it was a spacious and accommodating, but the ambient rose-pink tone suggested a tranquility not often found in this place where Ms. Stanton applied her mysterious homeopathic craft.

Medicine is what she called it, even though it was a business degree and not a medical certification that hung on her wall. Nor did she use the usually medicines and tools of the medical trade. Excluding the nurse’s uniform, all the curative tools she needed to contrive her sorcerer’s brew could be found in the treatment room gadgetry and apparatus, the greenhouse and herb garden around back. Add in a touch of her persuasive persona and a wad of bubble gum and she had all the ingredients she needed to build the Taj Mahal. Certainly more than was needed to reconstitute an ailing boy in any fashion she wished. Of course no one understood that better than poor Patrick Whipple as he walked in yet again.

He stopped next to a table just outside the door to look over the assortment of magazines Ms. Stanton provided for her young client’s enjoyment. The magazines were the one thing he liked about coming to see her. Pulp fiction and muscle magazines with pictorials, photo exposés and action stories disguised as patriotic fanfare, they were written to appear to men with a decidedly different bent. Sometimes savage, sometimes heroic, but always spotlighting a ton of scantily clad beefcake. Not the usual fare one would find in a homeopathic clinic, but Patrick found them fascinating and couldn’t wait to get his hands on the newest issues.

Looking over the copies of “Muscle & Fitness,” “Musclemania,” “Kombat,” “Kommando,” and his favorite “Modern Gladiator,” Patrick spotted the newest cover with Sgt. Rock posed in a jungle river setting. A red bandana was tied around his forehead and his face scrubbed with lines of black camouflage. Standing in a shallow pool of muddy river water, he was still soaked from the swim. He had a Glock hunting knife clenched in his teeth, a 6 barrel revolving Mini-Cannon in his hands and a bullet bandoleer across his shoulder. Other than a skimpy pair of red French-cut trunks and his menacing snarl he wore nothing else. And the only thing bigger than that beefy cannon of his was his 60” chest and 22” round biceps that were roughly proportionate a tree trunk in the near foreground.

Patrick quickly thumbed through the pages, all 8x10 glosses along with a loose story line of sorts beneath. Stopping momentarily on the one that showed Sgt. Rock wrapped around a crocodile like a boa in a fight to the finish with its prey, he knew he’d not be leaving today without this must-have issue. Setting down the copy of Muscle & Fitness he had picked up in the foyer, he exchanged it for the new edition of Modern Gladiator. Tucking it under his arm he entered the treatment room and set it alongside his pile of clothes.

He felt a bit restless when he entered the room. Mostly from the memories that stained him as rose-pink as the walls. Just seeing it all again rest heavily upon him and feeling a tightening in his stomach he sought a place to sit. Sitting down on an infants stool he slumped over to rest his weary head in the palm of his hands to think. In the background he could hear Ms. Stanton and his aunt across the hall talking . . .
----

“I see you’ve been quite precise with the schedule . . . no significant temperature variations . . . and Patty has been responding well to the new mitigation schedule . . . though you’ve experienced a bit of a problem with frequent torosity I see.”

“Torosity?” echoed Edith, seemingly confused by the term.

Barbara was sitting behind her desk quickly scanning the Program Log Edith maintained as a matter of practice. “Yes Edith,” Barbara bluntly followed without bothering to look up, “‘torose’ is a medical term referring to the alternate swelling and contracting of a knobbed protuberance. Much like a . . . Well, like the problem Patrick has been experiencing I would suspect.”

Across from her sat Edith, still carrying her musky scent on the back of her hand. She sat with her hands folded modestly on her lap looking on impassively though relieved that a sense of orderliness had finally returned to the proceedings. “Oh, well, yes! I suppose I did make a notation to that effect. He did seem a bit more . . . um, animated than usual,” Edith replied, her cheeks flush by a factor of two. “But it wasn’t really a problem as such. Just something I had to contend with. As you recall, you did ask that I record everything, correct Ms. Stanton?”

“Yes, thank you,” Barbara replied, wondering if the woman could be anymore daft. “And you’ve using the new appliance for the mitigation procedure as I recommended?”

“Oh yes, I assure you, twice daily just as you’ve prescribed. Before his morning bath and again before I give him his bedtime bath promptly at eight.”

Barbara peered in and listened intently, appearing as if she were taking the whole matter quite seriously. She wasn’t, of course. The process she had set in motion was already too well established and the outcome already known. Still, the “purge and herbal replenishment” therapy was supposedly a vital part of the boy’s recovery program, and for Edith’s benefit it was important to show the unsuspecting woman she was giving it her fullest attention. Part of the game she played to placate the old woman. To reassure her that the scheme was working exactly as intended, and like always, her cool, calculated manner had put Edith at ease and in a very pleasant state of mind.

Not that Edith had as yet forgiven Barbara for her shocking display of libido that had just played out during her nephew’s performance. In fact, the incident was still very much on her mind. Having one’s hand clasp between the thighs of another was not the sort of thing a lady of her persuasion was likely to forget too quickly. Least not with Barbara’s pungent scent still tattooed on the back of her hand.

Of course she wanted to believe the incident had been accidental. If not, then perhaps it could be blamed on a form of battle fatigue that had suddenly overtaken Barbara Stanton, the consummate commander-in-chief. That was something she could understand, having felt similar uncontrollable impulses herself every now and again, more often than not when feeling a bit of frustration. Once the itch was scratched sort of speak, she quickly returned to her usual self.

She supposed it was something in a woman’s nature to need to relieve the tension and the stress. That is, without having to resort to pulling out your hair. Now that she gave it a second thought, perhaps she had been too quick in passing her initial judgment. She had to admit now that her tensions had also been spent, she found it a lot easier to forgive the misdemeanor — somehow!

So Mrs. Whipple beamed a satisfied smile and quickly gave up the worry about the little dalliance. She was no less from the wear. Besides, there wasn’t but a couple of decades difference in their age and . . . well, she did have her pride and rather liked to fancy herself not altogether undesirable.

Edith was also pleased to see Ms. Stanton back in good form. She found her to be a strikingly beautiful woman with a firm, commanding hand. Like a thoroughbred in full stride, she was a pleasure to behold when on top of her game. She reminded her of her dearly departed mother, a strict, iron-fisted woman who ran the household, her and her father like a Parris Island drill instructor.

Her mother had been a force like none other in her life until she had met Barbara Stanton. Perhaps we can speculate as to whether that was the reason she found her so appealing. The possibility certain gives one food for thought. Although for a lady of advanced years, set in her ways and who has managed well on her own terms, there really isn’t much of a need to examine why she is this way or that. We need only consider that she was mindful of just one thing other than her own self-interest, and that was Ms. Stanton.

Surely this divine creature was worthy of her reverence, and like her mother, the stern look in her eyes always stirred the smoldering embers deep in her loins when she spoke.

“. . . But I see the week wasn’t entirely without problems. You’ve mention here in your log that Patrick has some complaints about the mitigation procedure. Perhaps you’d care to be more specific, Mrs. Whipple!”

“Ah, well, um . . .”

“Please try to be more direct, Mrs. Whipple. We need not waste more time than is necessary. I assume you explained why this kind of behavior is unsuitable and dealt with appropriately?”

“Aaah, yes, well of course. You know I tolerate nothing of the sort. Still . . . ,” she paused looking as if to resolve a tinge of guilt. “He does fiddle terribly when I use the new . . . um . . . appliance. I know you explained to him he should have no difficulties in making the accommodation, and he is so willing to please, and all. It’s just that, well, sometimes the poor dear tries too hard. He tenses up so, and complaints when more . . . aaah, pressure must be applied. It does seem the smaller appliance caused him much less distress.”

“I see, and you think we should moderate this essential and vital part of his treatment?” The question posed rhetorically. “Simply give in and allow him to slide back into his poor health habits that caused all this to be necessary. See him again habituating the old patterns which have caused his vitals to degenerate. You would have me do this just so I may show sympathy? I can’t! Nor should you, but I would gladly pass on his records if you wish to seek the help of another clinician.”

“Oh my, heavens no, Ms. Stanton,” she shudder over the veiled threat. “I have every confidence you’ll restore my nephew to good health.”

“I believe you do, but certainly no less than I do. It’s imperative we realign, re-nourish and re-educate your nephew back to good health. To see him grow up healthy and live happy ever after in the arms of the right . . . well, person. We do want to be socially correct with the times do we not Mrs. Whipple?”

“Why certainly, I am thoroughly modern in most all regards . . . I suppose,” Edith followed, hoping the keen eyed Ms. Stanton couldn’t detect her flush. “His happiness is paramount.”

Of course, Barbara didn’t have to be all that keen eyes. A crayfish with one leg already in the boil couldn’t have been more on edge. All quite predictable, if not counted upon whenever she ratcheted up her resolve and consumed all the oxygen Edith needed to breathe. Being firm and unyielding with her was always like adding fuel to a famished fire, especially when hinted at things forbidden, like those dare-not-be-spoken thoughts about her nephew.

“I agree,” Barbara followed. “We must be open-minded to all the possibilities. One can never tell what boys will take a fancy to these days. It’s all rather natural. Not all boys have the same appetite for this and that, but it’s important to keep abreast of it. That’s why I feel it’s important we go over this in fine detail. I want to be certain all facets of the program are achieving their intended goal. It all works for the betterment of the program. There’s no harm in that. Just like there’s no harm in his fascination with those wondrous musclemen.”

“Well, its far better I suppose than other pleasures boys tend to enjoy. Comic books, sports collectables, cowboys and Indians, bah, they all perpetuate slothfulness and hooliganism which has no place in my home.” Mrs. Whipple spoke firmly. “That’s why I insist his attending Dobb’s Military Academy. They hold to basics and traditions with far more substance and don’t permit such things.”

“Yes, well, it is unfortunate for our little ‘Modern Gladiator’ enthusiast. He has nobody to share his muscle man collectables with.”

“I suppose,” Edith mumbled then glanced away as if undecided whether to go on. “He does love those he-men so, especially that Sgt. Rock.”

“It is a wonder,” Barbara mocked her verbal point, “a mega-muscle Adonis posing as a combat commando in those skimpy trunks and combat boots. Not to mention that huge gun he carries around, as if that could possibly provide some legitimacy. Imagine his cadre of little Musclemaniac’s the world wide believing him a real combat hero.”

“Yes well, I suppose it’s the gun that draws his interest. It is a rather big one!

“Yes I’ve noticed.” Ms. Stanton followed in a quirky, amused tone.

“Well,” Edith shrugged, “I guess you do what you must to hold a boy’s interest.”

“Why not, he has a lot to offer. That beefy weapon he flaunts certain has my eyes riveted to the page.” Barbara Stanton suddenly burst out laughing, and though his aunt tried to refrain, she soon followed suit.

-----

The laughter was reality tapping Patrick on the shoulder. It swept in like a cruel, gut wrenching arctic chill that made him shiver. Bad enough that he was the subject of distain at school, but to hear the same in Ms. Stanton’s voice only help to solidify how he felt about himself. He didn’t want to stand out, be different from the others. He only wanted to measure-up and, like a good soldier, come by a little pride in himself. Instead he ended up having made matters worse.

It was his decision to cut his hair of course, against the wishes of his aunt and one of the few not made by someone else. In truth he had no real voice to call his own. From a small boy living with his mother in Maine to life with his aunt in Arizona, all the decisions had been made for him. Sadly, seemingly everyone had a hand in shaping his life but him.

But how else could it be? His aunt ran her household and raised him as she saw fit. As his only living relative he had little choice but do as she asked, and after Ms. Stanton came into the picture, his treatment of his supposed ailment robbed him of the choice on how he was to live. The whole of it prescribed for him by his treatment program. From the corrective heels and support corsetry, to the time he spent outside exposed to the hot afternoon sun.

Of course he couldn’t blame his aunt anymore than he could his dearly departed mother for his wafer-thin draft. She was just doing what she thought right. It wasn’t her fault he still wet the bed. The facts were what they were. He was a sickly “string-bean” of a kid, just as weak and frail now as when he began his treatment. His aunt’s laughter bore that out. No, he knew his failings where his own, and he didn’t like himself very much for it.

Carrying around those kinds of feelings can be a crushing weight to bear for a young boy, but no different from you or I when suffering the pangs of our inadequacies. It’s something that tugs at us all and affect us in some known, and some unknown ways. There are some who might choose to spend time commiserating with a bottle of bourbon, and those like Patrick who don’t like themselves all that much and shed a tear or two. Something he was doing a lot more often these days, his emotions waxing wildly sometimes without reason.

He didn’t know why it was becoming harder to control his emotions. Not anymore than he understood the recently acquired habit of rapping an extended index finger against his temple as one might tap a windowpane. Call it a nervous tick if you like, something he did when overcome with emotion. Much like the sound of a metronome marking time, so too did the gentle rhythmic thumping of his finger help to give him a sense of bearing above the chaos of emotions. Just as he did as he sat listening to the laughter with his head cradled in his palms and a glint of moisture on his lashes, his finger nervously rapping . . .

----

. . . thumpity-thump, thumpity-thump, Barbara Stanton gently rolled her fingers against the desk top waiting for Mrs. Whipple to pour herself a cup of tea. Barbara always kept the kettle hot knowing how much Edith liked to linger over a warm cup while they conversed. She claimed to particularity favor the special blend of herbs and spices. However, Barbara thought it more likely that she used the time to mull over her thoughts before deciding how best to proceed.

She returned to her seat at the desk, sipped her tea, and then looked up at the portrait hanging on the wall behind Ms. Stanton. She was enthralled by what she believed to be an extraordinary young lady, with her long curly hair, pouting red painted lips and peculiarly, only one pearl earring. Barbara watched as she crooked her head in study of the portrait, looking as if caught up by the mystery behind Jordan’s radiant blue eyes and angelic smile. “So have you made any decisions about what you’re going to do once he graduates from the academy next month?”

“No,” Edith sullenly replied. “I suppose if he gets his wish he’ll enlist in the army. But as you’ve said, without a clean bill of health he’s not likely to pass the physical. In which case, I simply do not know. Perhaps attend a college to learn a trade . . .”

“You still haven’t discussed it with him?”

“No, I know how disappointed he’s going to be. You know how he romanticizes about the army, not to mention that Sgt. Rock.”

“Nothing wrong with that, Edith,” Barbara said emphatically. “It just goes to show what a special boy he is. There’s nothing wrong with a boy idolizing his heroes. Besides, to want to imitate is the purest expression of love. We can’t place blame on him for that. Mr. Rock is quite a gorgeous thing, don’t you agree?”

“Well . . . yes, of course, but I’ve never quite thought of it like that. I mean, I never imagined . . .”

“Mrs. Whipple, you have a lovely young willow in your back yard. You’ve told me countless times about the pleasure the tree gives to you. Now tell me, does it matter how your willow chooses to look? Whether spread out like a full skirt or droopy as trousers on a clothesline, whatever fashion Mr. Willow chooses doesn’t matter as long as it gives you pleasure, right Edith?”

Poor Mrs. Whipple, her hard-edged common sense seemed to desert her whenever she was in need. She still hadn’t been able to see though her concerns about her nephew’s future, and now Barbara expected her to see through the inference about her androgynous tree? The perplexities were staggering, but that was the enigma Barbara Stanton posed. She spoke as though privileged to insights she alone understood. With presumed authority in a firm, confident way that left Edith struggling with the mystery, yet taken by her intoxicating presence.

“Your ‘Mr. Willow’ is very special,” Barbara continued to play on the misdirection, a tact solely intended to punch a hole in that great wall of pride she aimed to obliterate. Step one in the battle plan she had concocted to bring that meddlesome, steadfast wall down. “. . . and it would seem to me he requires not only your nurturing but acceptance as well, no matter his bent. Don’t you agree, Edith?”

“Oh my, I, I suppose. . .” Edith stammered, now realizing this was not about uprooting her tree simply because she might not like the way it looked. Edith wasn’t the brightest firefly in the jar, but she didn’t have to be. The suggestion that there might be something more to Patty’s fascination with that majestic Sgt. Rock had been made quite clear.

Of course, she had never thought of it in those terms before, and in truth, would have preferred not to. These were not the kind of things decent women discussed in public, least not without causing some bloodletting. Yes, to her it was a shameful thought, but she also loved her nephew unconditionally.”

Nevertheless, as far as she could see it had nothing to do with his therapy and she wondered why Barbara would bother to bring it up. Those things were the product of poor upbringing and parenting, broken homes and delinquency. Not the product of a good home like her own. Besides, her Patty was a good boy, not a delinquent choosing a deviant homosexual lifestyle. Or so she was of the opinion.

“I knew you would agree,” Barbara followed, no longer trying to disguise her intent. “You’re a very conscientious woman. I also know you’re not averse to providing whatever is needed. Especially when it comes to establishing the kind of intimacy you need to share his interests and explore his needs. Right, Edith?”

“Yes, I agree,” she replied as she selected a pleasant smile, carefully attached it to her face then continued to sip her tea. Her thoughts however were elsewhere. She was wondering if Barbara felt the need to bring the matter up. Surely she must know by now that her nephew’s happiness was all that mattered, and even if she were to recommend she garter his long stockings she would follow her advice as if the letter of law.

Still she had put the question out there, and rightfully so. After all, much about herself she kept closely guarded, hidden away and not worn on her sleeve. Just as you might expect of a woman, old and alone, who had only herself to defend her dignity. That’s all she had left after all is said and done. And should it be found out she secretly harbored passions for things more stirring than a garden of prize tulips, the shame would be the death of her. Or worse, she’d be left to suffer a torment far greater than the one that already ravaged her soul whenever Barbara’s lips lingered so close.

“All well and good,” Barbara concluded, pleased to see from Edith’s distant look that the first salvo she aimed at that wall of pride had hit the target square. “Rest assured I’m not likely to let you forget. Now, we should be getting on with the examination.”

As she gave Edith a moment to finish her tea she reached down under her desk to retrieve a package. “Before we go however, I’ve something here that I want to give to Patty. It was sent to me from a colleague in France who is also a bodybuilding enthusiast.”

“Another magazine to satisfy his interests, I hope. He really does love all those lovely pictures.”

“Yes, of course. Another of those titillating glamour magazines he enjoys,” she telegraphed a grin.

“It’s a souvenir of sorts she picked up at a show in Paris and I’d like to pass it on to you so you can share it with Patty at your leisure. Something to juice up the bone,” she stated quickly frankly, but careful to keep the smirk off her face.

“Juice up the bone?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Edith. It’s just an expression of my mother’s when preparing dinner for her starving kids. Whenever I asked what she was making she would say, ‘Lions and Tigers and something special to juice up the bone.’ That always meant something special was coming that was sure to be pure ecstasy.”

“Oh, I see. Well, thank you, I’m sure Patty will be grateful.”

“Well, I had planned on giving it as a gift myself for his coming birthday, but decided it might be better if the two of you were to cozy up and explore this little treasure together.”

“That is very kind of you, but are you sure? You know how he is looking forward to his birthday and a present from you.”

“I’ll get him another.” Barbara replied. Yet her thoughts were elsewhere. She was thinking about Patrick’s coming birthday. Something she had been looking forward to for a very long time — young Mr. Whipple turning eighteen at last!

“I’ll get him something more fitting a boy soon to be looking to find his rightful place in the world.” She added, thinking about how much she had left to do in so little time. She would have to step things up as it was now or never.

“And I want to give him the perfect gift that will help him find it.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Edith replied. “I can’t wait to see the surprise on his face.”

“Neither can I,” Barbara followed with a wayward glance. The last thing she wanted was to unwittingly tip her hand and allow her good work to come undone. “Now, I’ll just leave this package beside your purse so you won’t forget when you leave this afternoon.”

“That done, I think it time we go see Patty. Come along, Edith,” she concluded, then rose up to leave with Edith shadowing those skyscraper heels, homing in on the rhythm of the stilettos like a dog on the hunt . . .

----

The prey they stalked heard the sound of the advancing stilettos as well. Though, unlike a rabbit fleeing the evening stew, he had nowhere to run, or hide or worry about other than whether they would enjoy the meal.

Of course, it wouldn’t surprise him if she were to complain about that too — his being nothing but skin and bone, and all. Just like her comment about wanting to help him “find his rightful place in the world.” Coming from her, it didn’t surprise him in the least. It apparently didn’t surprise his aunt either. So why should anyone wonder why she would even have a say in the matter. She did what she wanted and said as she pleased without reflection. She pulled all the strings, and there was nothing he could say that would change that.

Like his Geppetto, it was a bit hard to escape the tie, and like a boy on a string, he was never far from her reach. Just as it had been since she began managing his care, his life and everything about him. She had him tied so close he could scarcely breathe on his own, molding and shaping his world with determination. All accomplished with the blessings of his dear aunt under the banner of a treatment program.

From the beginning it had been the gospel of Stanton. Her first infallible truth was the importance of good health habits. “Your poor health is a symptom of a body out of harmony, struggling to overthrow the disease.” She would say. “To cure what ails you we must re-establish your natural poise and balance through a gradual process of re-vitalization and re-education designed to eradicate harmful habits and affect change. As the mind and the body are one, we must work with the totality of the person to change this vital force. And that begins with self-awareness.”

The upshot of all this was that the ailment would have to be dealt with in its “totality,” requiring a complete change in lifestyle. Realign, re-nourish and re-educate. Realign the posture to free up wasted resources caused by undue stress. Re-nourishing the “vital force” through “purge and herbal replenishment,” and re-educate to unlearn harmful habits, affecting change in how he thought about himself. In accordance with her “like cures like” principle, he’d learn about the healthy male physique with the use of the muscle magazines that exemplified the fitness. For her it was a convenient way to integrate his fascination with bodybuilding with his recovery program. For Patrick, it was a bit of genius that suited him just fine.

Although she never offered to explain exactly how the substance of all this would miraculously affect the change she sought, she insisted it was all essential to his recovery plan. Then when he was healthy enough the actual muscle training would follow. It all sounded convincing enough. Thinking of this as just a prelude of what was to come he engaged it all enthusiastically.

Why not, a boy needs hope and heroes too. Much like those he found in his muscle magazines. There’s nothing wrong in that. It was something he enjoyed, not unlike others might enjoy modeling or sports collectibles. In many ways they were like his aunt’s variety magazines, only for boys. Instead of “titillation” and “glamour,” as Ms. Stanton would have us believe, they providing the action and adventure and the masculine models for him to aspire and fashion his character; Sort of a “Boy’s Life” for the underachiever if you will. In much the same way his aunt admired those gentleman in the variety magazines for a certain fashion sense, he readily admitted to a certain admiration of those men in the muscle magazines for their physical prowess.

The reasons seemed obvious enough. They were everything he was not but wished to be - vital and heroic. As he lived a cloistered life with no friends at home or school, with only the opinion of his aunt and Ms. Stanton to consider, those magazines were very important to him. The hero’s were bigger than life, and yes, he rather fancied them in ways he didn’t altogether understand.

So late at night it was not uncommon to see young Patrick Whipple beneath the covers of his bed with his authentic Musclemania flashlight and his magazine in hand. There he’d read and reread every caption, scan and re-scan every photographic detail, fascinated by what he saw. His imagination filled with the same wonder of a boy holding a complete set of the 1927 Yankee Bazooka trading cards. Afterward with the light off, his eyes closed, he’d mill over the images that filled him with wonder.

Then outing himself from beneath the covers he’d rise up firmly, and once again taking himself in hand he’d dream of the images that play back in to his mind. Like scenes in an old movie that pass in a jerking, flickering sequence and then repeat like a film looping round. Slowly at first, but as his pulse quickens and the intensity grows the scenes flick past faster and faster, round and around until the jerking, sputtering loop plays itself out to completion and he could again sleep.

----

Patrick sat waiting for Ms. Stanton and his Aunt in the treatment room, his head held up by his cradling palms. Slumped over it was obvious he felt a little melancholy. Not how we’d like to find the young man, leastwise not without good reason. Was it something about his present state of affairs, or was there something about this room that concerned him when Ms. Stanton entered the room?

“Patty! My word, what’s become of you? Straighten up properly this instant!” Barbara’s screech was like that of a predator swooping down on its prey. With all but her claws out there was nothing to be done except assume the perfect posture, then contritely allow himself to be taken in hand and hauled off to the hygiene corner that had been occupying his thoughts.

“And I thought you were a big enough boy to no longer require the aid of an alignment corset.” She pulled up a chair alongside the gurney, sat and positioned him between her knees to conduct her examination. “Quickly now we have no time to dawdle.”

Edith, a woman with ample experience in these matters looked on from the entrance so as not be in the way. The vantage point provided a good view as this beautiful, skilled practitioner taking charge of her nephew. In many ways it was quite reminiscent of those nightly experiences she had of her own, though when viewed from the outside, so much more emotive. With her eyes fixed to the scene with the same wonder of a child witnessing a birth of a hatching, she held her breathe and watched quietly from the distance.

His trunks, tight fit and torose came down. Then feeling for tension in the abs Ms. Stanton found good reason to lecture him. “My, but you’re . . . taut, tight and stiff as a board! No wonder I find you slouching. What have I to do? Movement without thought is misuse, you know that. It’s essential that you sustain the muscle tone and the posture needed to stimulate the body’s natural resources to combat your affliction. As well, it aligns the cramped byways to support proper respiration and digestion, not to mention helping to keep you alert and clear minded.”

“But this can’t happen if you can’t free up the resources you’re wasting on needless expenditures like this. Now, the treatment regiment can only do so much. The rest is up to you. So tell me Mister stiff-as-a-board, how do you expect to grow up big and strong with your body all tied up in knots like this, hum?”

“I-I dunno Ms. Stanton,” Patrick shook his head as if to negate the proof right in front of her eyes.

“Don’t know? Is that all you can say to explain yourself . . . or explain this? What in the world are you thinking?” She posed the question rhetorically. “Just have a look at yourself, slouched and taut and unapologetic. All this when you should be feeling ashamed of this display of yours, especially in front of your aunt and me who had been hoping you’d be displaying something a bit more substantial in the way of progress by now.”

Edith knew she was right, of course. It was a rather rude display, but nothing she hadn’t seen before. In truth, his lack of forethought was something she dealt with quite often, almost expectedly if you will. Young boys are prone to these things after all. Especially during intimate moments like this, when given their impetuous nature boys are more apt to respond instinctively, unable to exercise self-control.

Still, she couldn’t help but feel flushed as Barbara methodically went about the examination. As thorough as a fastidious schoolmistress, there wasn’t much in the way of detail that escaped her reach. Coupled with the strident voice, her passionate resolve and her firm, confident hand, and you have all the ingredients needed to move mountains. From Edith’s place at the door, enough to stir the kettle of simmering broth deep in her loins.

But don’t let your imaginings get the better of you. Everything Barbara did was quite clinical, although she wasn’t averse to adding a touch of choreography here and there while she went about her diagnostic prodding and probing and artful machinations. Perhaps for Edith’s benefit or perhaps the boy’s just to keep his toes curled or his mind from wandering. Of course, there was something in the game for her too. She was a businesswoman after all, and this was a business proposition.

Nevertheless, work is just work if some enjoyment isn’t had in the execution. The tedium can in itself become problematic. Although, thankfully, this wasn’t something Barbara had to contend with. There was something in the wickedness of the process she savored as she indulged her palate on his heightened discomfort. Still she was mindful of her role, and always careful, she made sure everything she did was completely in line with the work.

“Mrs. Whipple, I wonder if you won’t mind retrieving an alignment corset from the closet. I’ve simply reached my limit with this ungainly slouching.” That’s the sound of Barbara doing what she does best. Just like any highly motivated entrepreneur who owned the tactical skills of an Indi-car champion. She always kept a keen eye on the competition and her foot on the accelerator as she raced to success in the business world, and before that, to the top of her class in “Strategic Personnel Management 401.”

Now with Edith strategically out of the way she sought to direct her personnel management skills toward other, more personal matters. Not liberties per se, she didn’t have to take unfair advantage of Patrick. In truth she often frequented those special places when time was convenient. Not wanting to draw unneeded questions she often found it prudent to wait until his aunt first stepped out to powder her nose.

“Turn your head and cough, Pattie . . . another. That’s a good boy.” Again, nothing out of the ordinary. Checking for anything usual was quite expected, especially for a late bloomer like Patrick. Although invasive, it’s all quite clinical, even when his aunt was away. Though sometimes not. Oft neglected cavernous tissues had to also be deal with. If not already enliven, as now, it was within her prerogative to see that everything was still in the proper working order.

All part of the game she played to further heighten his discomfort out of view of his aunt. Not that Edith could stake claim to the moral high ground. She had her duties at home and didn’t hesitate to exercise her own prerogative while managing his nightly ablutions. Hardly the lofty platform one would use to launch a complaint, especially considering the passion she had for performing her “duties.” Barbara could see that in the attention to detail Edith gave to his shave and the sweet smell of hand lotion in the most unlikely places. Something Barbara understood and comfortably counted upon as her fingers prodded and her hands kneaded without fear of recrimination.

Besides, a conflicted woman harboring a passion for bathing a seventeen year old nightly while administering a colonic purge wasn’t likely to speak up, much less own up to whatever was on her mind. That might also go to explain why Edith didn’t say anything about other, equally pertinent matters. Like the recent changes in his physique, all quite unexpected in a boy. It would have been impossible for her not to have noticed, but if she had, nothing was said.

Of course it was a gradual process that accompanied other changes as he grew taller and more robust with age. The need to shave more often, especially those required areas like underarms, legs and other like places certainly was within the realm of what was to be expected. What about his chin, shouldn’t there have been evidence of some need by now? Even for a boy as tenuous, to see no evidence of hair growth on either his chin or his chest should have been the cause of some concern. Then again, if it had, no questions were asked.

Just as neither Patrick nor his aunt said anything about other, equally noticeable aberrations. Allowing her fingertips to gentle brush over the raised swellings on his chest, it was hard to imagine how the abnormally large, vaulted dark brown areoles had not caused some suspicion. If not, then what of his smooth, unblemished skin or the distinctive plump curvature of his bottom, all so undeniably feminine it couldn’t have been mistaken for anything other than it actually was.

Oh, to a degree he complained about her herbal remedies and exercises not doing their job. Especially those intended to build muscle and not the fat that seemed to be accumulating in certain localized places. He also complained of a bothersome itch around one such area on his chest. More so recently, so she thought it would be a nice gesture to gently soothe the area with a special balm, quietly and unannounced while his aunt was away.

There wasn’t all that much to it quite honestly. Just a light concentrate of certain oils, roots, herbs and the like she also used for his internal ablutions. Nothing meant to harm or cause permanent mischief. Only a subtle medicinal splicing to hybridize the yin with the yang while advancing the process from bud to blossom. A process she knew a lot about. The careful milling and tempering of her special brew; she knew how to exact all the right processes, incantations and phases of the moon.

Now with the buds ready to rise up in full blossom with the morning sun, Barbara was pleased to see it was doing its job well. The time-tested remedy had proven itself as a profitable tool over the years for both her special clients and herself. So she had no qualms about gently rubbing in the balm. Certainly Patrick didn’t mind. He wore a contented smile and sighed with some relief as his aunt returned to the room.

Edith was pleased as well. Having to find a suitable medical garment that would fit him had not been as simple a task as it would seem. Though the no-frills, white spandex garment was decidedly on the feminine side, it certainly was modest compared to most of the delicate finery she found there. A simple garment that extended from just under the arm to the lower reaches of the abdomen, it used medal clasps and elasticized Velcro instead of lacing which made it a simple matter to tighten and remove.

In all, the garment served its purpose well. It was not a shaping garment per se, the likes of which a woman might wear to help perfect her contour. Rather, with it’s sewn in steel battens it was primarily a support garment that forced the shoulders, back and hips into perfect alignment. Unfortunately, it also compressed those localized accumulations of fatty tissues into two conspicuous swellings. Fledgling to be sure, but even so little marked a salient distinction that was impossible to go unnoticed.

Breathless and pale, Patrick looked as if rigor mortis had already set in while Edith’s heart raced like a Maserati and gasped as if venting the exhaust. She didn’t say anything. As she stood there eye to eye and most assuredly, breast to breast, she acted as though there was nothing out of the ordinary at all. Even in view of his ambi-gender allure and comely form it was as if she thought of him simply as her sickly nephew in need of her sympathy, not her outrage.

Or so she would have it appear. As we all know, the face we put forward does not always tell the whole story. To know how she really felt you’d have to pierce through that defensive wall of pride. Something Barbara, with her uncanny capacity to see right through the conflicted Mrs. Whipple had no trouble doing. To her, Edith was an easier read then a dime store novelette, which might explain the wily smirk she now owned.

As for reading Patrick, well, the poor boy looked a beanstalk with three buds branching out from his skin and bone stalk — two buds up and one bud down. “Ah, well, there’s nothing like healthy bindings to eradicate unhealthy habits. With battens hard and erect, wouldn’t you agree Mrs. Whipple?”

“Ahmmm . . . of course,” Edith panted. Her Mrs. Pride was utterly aghast, but so overwhelmed by the pulsing, guilty-ridden flutter coursing through Mrs. Longing’s veins that doing the right thing was nowhere to be seen.

“All well and good. Now, young Mr. Rock, kneel up on the table, bottom up. Let’s have a look-see at what ails you.”

Energized by the sight of the compliant boy and his duty-bound aunt she helped him up on the gurney before suspending a 2 quart bag of her special herbal solution over his head. Then standing alongside a case that displayed in linear order the exclusively designed blue - as in boy - nozzles, she waved her fingers as if brandishing a wand over the top of the case. When she could tell from his tense, wide-eyed expression she had his full attention she slowly swept her fingers from the smallest down to one somewhat larger. Pausing over a replica of the model he currently used at home, she lingered a long moment and then shook her head as if to deplore, “It’s still a long road to recovery Patty. . .”

Then with a wry, amused grin, she continued on down the long row in her grandstanding manner until she reached the monstrosity at the end. Edith was on tenterhooks and he, mouth agape looked in awe as she picked it up and cradled it in her hands. “. . . But a fulfilling experience when you finally reach the end. Hopefully you’ll be feeling that fulfillment a little sooner than later . . . but unfortunately, not today.”

After taking hold of one similar to the one he now used at home, she secured it to the hosing then snapped-on a pair of latex gloves and lubricated the fingers. Edith stood by silently as Barbara readied her gloved fingers to plow a furrow good and deep. With Patrick kneeling bottom up and head resting on the table, she had already planted her trowel to the knuckles when, “. . . You-whooo!”

“. . . Anybody home?” That would be the bright and cheerful Mrs. Bottomly and her stepson walking in the door.

“Oh, good day to you Nicky and you, Mrs. Bottomly, is it 3 p.m. already?” Ms. Stanton feigned her surprise, peering over her shoulder, her fingers ensnared in a most inconvenient way. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’m afraid Patty has run a bit over his time.”

“That’s quite alright, Ms. Stanton.” Mrs. Bottomly replied. “Nicky and I have plenty of time. Please don’t hurry. I can see he is in need of your helping hand.”

“. . . and longer fingers than I have at my disposal I’m afraid.” She laughed along with the good Mrs. Bottomly as she withdrew her latex fingers. After removing her glove she walked over and took her hand in greeting.

Mrs. Bottomly was a heavy set woman in her fifties. She had a round face, a pleasing crescent smile and a pronounced nose loftily perched upon the mantle. Even with her hair tied up in a bun she was shorter than Edith, but with her pearls and expensive cashmere she looked decidedly more affluent. “Mrs. Bottomly, this is Mrs. Edith Whipple and her nephew Patty . . . that’s his bottom over there,” everyone chuckled. “And Mrs. Whipple, this is Jane and her delightful stepchild Nicky.”

Of course young Patrick was not given the pleasure of a formal introduction. As they stood behind him out of his range of view he couldn’t see them. “While I’m finishing up why don’t you two have some tea and Nicky can give me a hand to speed things up a bit. You’ll find a warm kettle brewing in my study.”

“What a splendid idea, don’t you agree Mrs. Whipple?” chirped the buoyant Jane Bottomly. “I’ve got these absolutely gorgeous Red Emperor Tulips I simply must tell you about.”

The pair departed arm in arm and laughing about this and that, already acting as if fast friends. Ms. Stanton took Nicky’s hand and he returned a knowing smile as together they stepped up where Patrick could see. “Patty, this is Nicky. Once sickly and frail like you, he’s now one of my great success stories.”

Young Patrick looked up and stared in awe at the vision quickly shedding his clothes. He came dressed in high-top sneakers, white with blue trim basketball shorts and a matching jersey adorned with the number 69. He stood as tall as Ms. Stanton standing in her platform heels and with his athletic, muscular physique he looked as if he could play the point for Duke. Given the cut of his masculine jaw, beautiful blue eyes and the chisel of his dimpled square chin, he would have made an exceedingly handsome point guard at that.

Nicky was everything but what he had expected. In quick order he had stripped down to his brazil-cut jockeys, both pink and very brrr-eef. From the size of the loll in the triangular pink pocket, he didn’t appear to be some hapless, ailing boy in need of Ms. Stanton’s care. He looked as healthy, as he looked handsome, as he looked everything Patrick was not but always dreamed to be.

Although paradoxically nothing else about him did. For all that was extraordinary about this 20 year old man-boy, nothing spoke more to the enigma he posed than the long cascading fall of tight amber curls that framed his strong, masculine face. With his eyes crowned with high, thinly arched brows penciled-in to match his bluish-gray eye shadow, he seemed as might an androgynous teen still in the midst of his transition. With his high cheek bones highlighted with a coral-rose blusher to match his lustrous red lipstick and long red nails he looked both aspiring he-man and beautiful debutante rolled into one statuesque figure.

“Isn’t he simply the most beautiful boy you have ever seen Patty?” Barbara swooned, “So delicate and pretty yet hard and salty as a mouthful of caviar. And you know what else? He’s a Musclemaniac just like you.”

Now, Nicholas Bottomly was a clever boy and had a lot more on the ball than the dimwitted grin on his face might indicate. Indeed, he even picked up Ms. Stanton’s verbal cue right off, and without having to be told he instantly leapt into a classic Front Double Bicep pose to flex his handsomely defined musculature. Nor was the clever boy shy about strutting his wares. A veteran of many a shower-room war he knew how to strike a pose. Pumping up to present his best features and, best of all, how to sweeten the mix was what he did best. Nothing too flamboyant, mind you, especially when something modestly titillating usually “turned the trick.” Like looking back over his shoulder from a Back Lat Spread then seductively batting his extended lashed and licking his painted red lips before blowing his admired a kiss.

Of course his greatest admirer other than himself was now trying to move things along. She still had much to do and needed to cut his performance short. Doing so was another matter however. The self-absorbed boy was far too enamored with his own splendid physique to pick-up on her ‘lets-get-a-move-on’ cue. So she gave up on the subtleties for a blunter tact, pinching his ear to pull him over to the gurney in front of Patrick. “Now Nicky, if you will kindly help it would greatly speed things along.”

Nicky was only to glad to lend a hand, or whatever. So he leaned in and spread the cheeks of young Patrick’s bottom. Then as if to lend comfort, he lowered his lips to his ear and whispered, “Love your hair, Peach’esth!”

With Nicky’s words echoing in his ear, his heart raced and the mechanism to run and hide were in high gear. Pinned down like a butterfly to a mat, the best he could do was turn his head away from the sight of Nicky’s distended pink loll looming just inches away. To Patrick, the whole experience was gut-wrenching and unsettling. To Barbara his unease was a delectable dish served head down, bottom up. Something she wanted to savor slowly, using just a feathery touch of a finger to toy with the quivering target he offered up. First, by marking the spot with an “X,” something she liked to do to heighten his discomfort when preparing to do her worse.

Careworn and crushed by the invasive hand, he gulped for air like a topminnow. Then when tired of the game and she began her work in earnest, his lips would attempt half-formed syllables and then go slack in a gasping, airy wordlessness. In all, the heavy-handed onslaught and Nick’s presence overwhelmed his senses. One part of him was stunned by the shock and awe, another part of him strangely aroused. Looking up at Nicky he’d find himself peculiarly captivated by the wonder of him, and then he’d feel the staving, seemingly to his tonsils, and feel nothing but the trauma of the moment. Together, the push and pull of his feelings left the poor boy in a quandary, not knowing what to make of any of this. Certainly this was not how he had envisioned the virtuous path to recovery and good health would be.

Perhaps he’d “get use to it” as Ms. Stanton was fond of saying. Perhaps this was just one step forward in a process, that one day she could help him become a man — like Nicky. Not the Nicky with the painted face, but the tall, handsome, muscular man-boy with a jock-loll to do a thoroughbred proud. That’s the man he wanted to be, but this process and his having to “get use to it” implied so much more that he wasn’t prepared to accept. In truth, it took all the grit he could muster to not run off and hide when Nicky again leaned in and purred in his ear, “I hope we can be friends.”

----

Over in the Study and seemingly a world away, Jane and Edith sat sipping another cup of herbal tea while chatting away as if old friends. Jane spoke at length about her stepson, and the informal nature of their chat had immediately put them on more intimate footing. In no time at all she was quite forthcoming about Nicky and their shared life after her late husband left her with a mortgage to pay and a floundering stepson for her to rear.

She compared him to Patrick, how sickly and frail he was when she first brought him to Ms. Stanton, and how proud she was of him now. She couldn’t say enough about her stepson, praising him for what a good boy he was. How with Ms. Stanton’s help and her nodding approval he had acquired a passion for the colorful and more fanciful things not commonly shared by other boys, and hadn’t the words to describe the joy that brought her.

Of course, if not for the good graces and guidance of Ms. Stanton she was sure none of this would have been. He probably would have fallen the way of his father, a brick mason who in his rough and tumble way killed himself when driving in a drunken stupor. With Ms. Stanton’s knowledge about what ailed the young boy he came out quite handsomely, and even had come upon a lucrative living as a dancer at the Puss n’ Poodle Lounge in nearby Las Oasis. She was not modest at all in saying that he was apparently so good at his job he had many admirers, and paid handsomely enough to afford the kind of lifestyle both she and her stepson could only dream about before.

On the other side of the table Edith smiled and listened intently, absorbed in her story. She found Jane sincere and genuine, and by the look of the expensive jewelry and posh cashmere, her story absolutely true. After all, tradesmen don’t usually earn that kind of money, at least not enough to explain the aura of affluence. She also found herself wishing she could be as open and honest. Those commodities are not always so easy to come by, especially if you’re as guard as the good Mrs. Whipple.

Still it gave her confidence and, to the degree she would allow spoke at some length about her nephew, opening up more as their little chat progressed. Always careful, she spoke little about herself other than what she unwittingly revealed now and then. Still, you don’t need to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. The same holds for the inflection and the nuance. Something a woman with secret passions can’t altogether hide, especially from a like minded woman.

Jane also found Edith an easy enough to like, and like Barbara, she knew how to win the heart of this proud and wistful woman. Holding her hand and extending her warmth and understanding she had Edith in a most pleasant state of mind. When she heard that Patrick’s eighteenth birthday was just two weeks away, she was only too quick to ask if she and Nicky could bring a present to help celebrate the momentous event.

Edith was delighted of course, and together they planned a delightful little party for Patrick. It would certainly be a happy event for her nephew. It would also be a marvelous opportunity for the two boys to get to better know one another. Something Mrs. Bottomly seemed anxious to do.

They were still making their plans for the big event when they again walked into the Treatment Room. Arm in arm and brimming with excitement, they found a quiet corner and continued to fraternize like two school girls anxious to share a bit of gossip. Patrick was just finishing his floor exercises on the balance beam with Nicky’s help. As the two seemed to be managing well enough on their own, Barbara decided to join the ladies before finishing up.

“Thank you’s” for the tea were bantered about and she was pleased to see they had gotten along so well. When she heard of their tentative plans for a birthday party she pounced on it like a cat and was eager to add to the mix. Or so she would have it appear. In truth, she and Mrs. Bottomly had scripted this whole scenario. Privately, because it was something they planned to keep between themselves. They had a big fish to catch after all, and it wouldn’t do to drop their oar in the water before they set the hook.

So with feigned surprise she enacted her role in the charade, telling them she planned on attending and of course, to bring a lovely gift. As ladies will do, they decided to coordinate their gift selection so as not to duplicate. The ladies were tickled pink as they shared ideas about decorations, cakes and candles and the like, planning as if to win the heart of a 5 year old. Then when Ms. Stanton suggested they might consider expanding the effort to include a sleep over, the room seemed too small to contain the merriment. “A pajama party for the boys, how marvelous,” an overly enthusiastic and joyous Jane Bottomly shrieked.

It had all been carefully choreographed and, but for one small detail, the script had played out just as the two conspirators had planned. It seemed Edith had one slight problem with the whole affair. As she had only a small two bedroom cottage she had some concerns about the arrangements. She supposed she could lay down bedding in the family room for the boys, and Mrs. Bottomly could sleep in Patty’s room. Then where would Barbara sleep?

However, Jane Bottomly didn’t allow her to linger in doubt for very long. “Nonsense, that’s not a problem whatsoever. Why my little Nicky has sleepovers all the time and doesn’t mind sharing the covers. He’s quite fond of it actually. Besides, you know with all the wigging and giggling and bouncy beds, boys do require their privacy. As for Barbara and me . . . Well, you’d be surprised how amenable two house puss’s can be.”

Patrick had concluded the session and went to put on his clothes while Nicky, wearing only his flimsy Brazilian cut briefs, sauntered over to make an entrance like the androgynous queen he was. With his sultry sway and the flow of each barefooted stride poised heel to toe he made quite an exotic eyeful. It was the distended loll of that tiny pink packet that truly sucked all the available oxygen out of the room.

Even if it were possible to look elsewhere, the bobbing bowsprit of Her Majesty’s Ship Titanic cut a very conspicuous wake through the sea of skirts before taking up beside the bug-eyed Edith. Of course she didn’t want to appear crass so she took up some small talk, as a way to make his acquaintance and thankfully to divert her attention to his eyes. “Your mother tells me you’ve a job at the Puss n’ Poodle Lounge, is that right? I’ve not heard of it. Is it across the river over in Las Oasis?”

“Yes Miss’esth Whipple,” Nicky, the man-boy, the social sophisticate replied with his pronounced, breathy lisp - his wayward tongue distorting his post-consonantal “es’s.” Facing toward his left to show his best profile, he dangled his limp wrist under his chin and exaggerated a bat of his lashes. “Just for three days a week, but Miss’esth Stanton says I can work more soon.”

Seeing the look on Mrs. Whipple’s face, Jane quickly chimed in, chiefly to clarify the matter of Ms. Stanton’s involvement that had been left hanging. “Of course Barbara has only a small interest in the lounge, mind you! Della owns the club, but Nicky has proven himself on his own. He’s compensated quite handsomely.”

“Plus tips!” Nicky proudly interjected.

“Yes, and you work so hard for it darling,” Barbara replied tongue in cheek, “. . . and my little star is worth every penny of it.”

Patrick returned again fully dressed and ready as ever to escape this whole uncomfortable circumstance. In reaching to take his aunt’s offered hand he had to maneuver carefully, glacially around the HMS Titanic’s bowsprit to avoid colliding into it. Along with the amused expressions that followed him, became the subject of Nicky’s attention once again. “Is Patty going to be a Poodle, or one of the pretty Puss’esth?”

Barbara wasn’t about to tip her hand. Neither Patrick nor Jane was quite ready for that. “But soon,” she mulled over the thought as she reached up to pinch the dear boy’s cheek, then took one last jab at Patrick’s flagging esteem before he and his aunt departed. “Nicky darling, be a dear and give Patty a nice big hug while I help Mrs. Whipple retrieve her belongings.”

Accompanying Edith to her office she took a moment to speak to her before helping her with her shawl. “You know, Nicky has been a big help to me today. I’m thinking about changing his weekly appointments to Sunday so he can help with Patty’s program. I’m sure having an older, more experienced boy around can’t help but speed up the process which has been lagging of late. Who knows, maybe something or another might rub-off on your nephew. To any extent I want you to know I plan on stepping up the pace of his program and I don’t want the progress interrupted by childish complaints. I have confidence you know how to deal with these matters in a firm and no nonsense manner. Correct, Mrs. Whipple?”

“Oh yes, I most certainly do. You know I’m not shy about a firm application of the law,” she firmly replied as she stooped to pick up her purse and the gift wrapped package.

“I do!” Barbara followed, knowing well what she meant. “As you know he is a fast friend of my hand as well.” Then she stared intently into her eyes and promptly added, “. . . and if need be, Nicky’s too.”

“Ms. Stanton! Why I . . .”

“No problem, Edith,” Barbara abruptly cut her off. “I know that the three most difficult words to swallow are ‘take your medicine.’ Whose responsibility do you think it is to make sure it goes down the pipe?” Barbara quickly followed then quickly subdued the woman with an unwavering, hardnosed glare. “Why, it’s the good shepherd, of course. And a loving shepherd can’t allow one to wander too far from her flock. It has to be either leave with my blessing or stay and learn to listen. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but that’s the order of things in a household. ‘A firm hand in expression of love,’ my mother often said, and compliance the gift of acceptance. Isn’t that right, Edith?”

Barbara had made the terms quite clear. While Mrs. Pride was floored, left gasping for breath by the prospects, Mrs. Longing shed a crimson red flush that swept over her like a hot desert wind. The two minds of Mrs. Whipple fighting it out, and lost in the tussle, her good sense. Something Barbara understood quite well, and played upon to her good advantage. As she watched the dear woman turn away to avoid her gaze she knew it was just a matter of time. Soon she would have the conflicted woman as finely tuned as her concert piano. The piano upon which she planned to play “The Procession March” at Patrick’s soon to be Coronation Ball.
 
 
To Be Continued...
 
 
 © 2007 by Josie. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.

He knew the routine, having had it drilled into him over the years. Her doggedness was unrelenting and just the sound of her voice was enough for him to spring into the proper healthy posture. Standing up tall, he squared up his chin and drew his shoulders back. Then he thrust out his chest just as he had been taught to stand at attention at the academy. The subtle difference was the added rocking of his pelvis forward that caused his heels to rise up off the floor.

Patrick’s thoughts were of a like nature, just as you would expect after his harrowing day. From the visit to the barber to his meeting Nicky, it all had so many unexpected twists and turns. He sat quietly, his thoughts swaying too and fro with the yaw of the car as they rounded each bend in the road. Around one bend he’d see the scattering of scraggly Ajo Oak struggling to grow in the parched desert and think of his own struggle to grow up big and strong. The promise had such a strong allure he wanted to persevere, but like the scraggly Oak he wondered if he could endure the forces that would have him give up. Then around another bend he’d see the lights of Las Oasis off in the distance across the boarder and think of Nicky. Once a scraggly boy like himself, he had endured the forces and though blemished by the painted face, showed that there was hope even for him.

They returned home a little later than expected, but still early enough to see her next door neighbor, Mrs. Crawford, still tending her garden. As she parked the car in the drive she stopped to wave to the kindly old woman, a woman still rather spry for her advanced years. She was untypical of the aged who lived in the retirement enclave. Most preferred to remain inside, out of the scorching heat, cloistered away much like Patrick and herself. Then again, that’s why she chose to live here.

Tucked-away in a secluded little cul-de-sac it was quiet, small and the elderly, retired residents kept to themselves. No radios blaring, hot rods screeching or kids screaming. It was a reclusive desert paradise. That is except for the satellite dishes cluttering the landscape. Something Edith had never scribed to, nor tempted to bring into her house. Simply put, being part of the “aerial” nation was not what Edith Whipple was all about, and the solitude and the isolated suited her just find.

Exhausted from the long day they prepared a light meal before retiring to the family room to unwind as Patrick had become accustom. Set in her ways, Edith regimented the evening events with precision, seldom varied and precise as the tic-tock heartbeat of the great grandfather clock that stood beside the fireplace. They sat down to read or engage a craft promptly at six, a hot pot of tea served exactly at seven and preparation for bed always began at eight.

Those hours were a quiet time meant to help gather the inner resources after a hard days work. Where together they could share company, engage a craft or simply enjoy the solitude of the desert-scape framed in the picture window. Or if he chose, play the piano. A talent of his inherited from his mother and something he was very good at.

This night was expected to be no different with one slight exception. Knowing what a particularly difficult day it had been for her nephew she wanted to share a leisurely moment with him as he unwrapped the souvenir sent from Paris. Surely Barbara was right. It could only do a world of good for her to share these moments with him. So with a demonstrable showing of her shared excitement, she handed him the package and hugged him about the shoulders. With her head next to his and a smile to match, he quick as a wink unwrapped and then set the French magazine on his lap.

“Les Diex de la Soleil” was not entirely what either had expected, although from the look upon their faces it would have been hard to tell. Edith looked on with a smile frozen in place not wanting to be impolite. While Patrick smiled not wanting to show his disappointment as he continued to turn the pages. That is, until he got to the three page fold-out of Sgt. Rock posing in a majestic Front Double Bicep. And like all those posing in the “The Gods of the Sun” magazine, he was completely in the nude. As in barring anything other than a bullet bandoleer and a huge weapon — or two! There he paused as the big-as-life pages unfolded in his lap. Flushed red as a peony, his jaw went lax and the tremor of his hands would allow him to go no further.

As Edith saw it, it had to be that huge gun he carried in his hands. Not the Glock knife strapped to his thigh, not the snarled face shaded with black camouflage. Not even the burning village sitting in the background held more prominence than that awe-inspiring weapon now seen lax, at rest, dangling as if spent toward the ground.

“And thank goodness,” Edith thought to herself, quick to see the humor in it all. If that mighty cannon of his had been raised threateningly upright, taut and erect like the head of a viper prepared to strike, she seriously doubted there’d be enough room on the page. Just the sight of that huge weapon caused a flush, and as she fanned herself with one hand, she squeezed him about the shoulders with the other, and offered in affirmation. “My, he certainly has a big gun, doesn’t he?”

Undeniably, that 7.62mm 6 barrel revolving Mini-gun he carried was a very fierce weapon, more than a handful, or three! Then again, no more lethal than Edith’s quick tongue! Both deadly in the wrong hands, and if not careful, will quickly make a mess of things if shot off without forethought. Especially if you’re not quick enough to duck out of the way, something Patrick should have done, but failed to do. So now you’re probably wondering why he didn’t defensively duck-and-weave or just toss down the magazine and head out the door?

As to understanding the whys and the wherefores, well, that’s the subject of this story. Relationships are complex by their nature and as for young Patrick Whipple, let’s not be so quick to pass judgment, at least not yet. Or else you might draw the same unwarranted conclusions his aunt apparently had. And we wouldn’t want that. Young Patrick, our young man in the mirror who doesn’t like himself all that much and who blames himself for his failings, already has enough on his plate to deal with.

Keep in mind that much like ourselves, Patrick is not a finished product. He’s just a few days short of eighteen after all, and like this story, Patrick may yet find a way to “measure up.” Who knows, perhaps he’s destined to become the next Muhammad Ali. A man who certainly knew how to duck-and-weave then toss it all out and head out the door — Then again, maybe not.

----

So the week passed with all the routine familiarity to which Patrick had become accustom. During the morning and after school hours he remained tied to his aunt’s apron, and when not working beside her, he filled the house with the pure joy of his piano playing. By night however, things had changed - especially their after supper quiet time. In large part due to the new French magazine, but also due to his aunt’s new affability, readily cozying up to him as never before.

Once again, it was an innocent gesture, least in her way of thinking. Like everything else with Edith Whipple, you got what you saw. She was an amazingly simple woman, decent and homey. A Mother Hubbard, if you will. But there was also a painstaking sense of diligence about the woman that stood in contrast to that classical storybook simplicity. In the one hand she was wistfully doting; in the other, strictly thorough. Thorough in an excessively vigilance way, this Mother Hubbard made sure her beloved pet was never without a bone.

Whether he was in the need of a warm hug now and again, or a new blouse, her pantry was stocked full in abundance. That also applied to his therapy. If it called for ‘juicing up the bone,’ or whatever, it was her pleasure to offer that too. Of course the juiced up bone she felt obliged to feed him was not altogether like buying him new clothes. As Ms. Stanton had suggested, that required a bit more intimacy as she embraced his interest, explored his needs. Something very much on her mind when she again sat with him to share his new French magazine. “See how his clean shaven body shows the value he placed on good hygiene . . . and,” she inhaled deeply, “handsomely enhances his features.”

Well, conjure up whatever images you may. Much like the Mona Lisa’s smile, I know that not all of you will see this most unlikely picture I’ve painted in the same way. Some might see Edith’s crooked smile as a sign of hedonism, while others might see a compassionate Mrs. Hubbard. But as the picture I’ve painted of her is not yet complete, there is no way for you or I to tell for sure.

Not so with Edith however. She knew exactly what was behind her smile as she cozily snuggled up, clutched him firmly and indulged his interest in those beautiful boys. She did so with earnest in her very thorough way. Like old Mrs. Hubbard of fairy tale fame she was decent and homey. Slightly more vigilant, but in her own way you could say she added just as nicely to the reading of that classic storybook rhyme. “As she reached for his bone, she heard the dog moan, so needing relief from the tension he was prone.”

Okay, okay! I hear the squawking! There are limits and matters of civility that even I, Josie, must adhere to — and I apologize. I just thought it was important that we, together, explore the relevancy of his becoming the next Muhammad Ali. Remember? The possible future scenario for Patrick I outlined previously for you to consider? And if you should find that ducking and weaving is not his forte, then I thought I’d introduce another possibility for you to consider. One possibly more apt, but for that I’ll let you decide. Like this one you might find headlining the morning papers:

“Dateline: June 15, 2007, River Bend, Arizona - Sixty-six year old Edith Whipple was a victim of assault today in her home. Mrs. Whipple shown here with her Boater-hat and a broomstick stuck up her ass is a long time resident of River Bend and member of the Ladies Auxiliary and Lady Pioneers. The assailant now in custody has been identified as seventeen year old Patrick Whipple, a nephew and impending graduate of Dobb’s military academy. According to sources Mr. Whipple turned violent when the poor, defensive, frail old woman tried to help him overcome his addiction to a male nudist magazine. Mrs. Whipple was reported to have told authorities, “Good, you got him! Now lock the little turd up and throw away the key!”
 
 
Chapter 4
 
 
So went the week until it was again Sunday and time for his appointment with Barbara Stanton. They started out early enough to give rickety old Mr. Renault ample time to get there and time enough to indulge a favorite pastime of Edith’s. To see and be seen out and about amongst the Sunday morning window shoppers on Bancroft Lane was a must for her. With her handsome nephew in hand, she proudly strolled along the walkway as if on display, then joined the stream of early morning shoppers entering the M.J. Grant department store.

“You’re right, the light peach looks just lovely,” the elderly saleswoman who inhabited the junior wear department that day offered in opinion. “Interlocking cotton knit, pretty detailed trim . . . perfect,” the good lady beamed while holding up the short sleeve T-top to Patrick’s shoulders to assess the fit. Of course, mindful of the sale’s commission she was careful to disregard both the little lace bow on the neckline and Edith’s unusual taste in boy’s wear.

“It comes complete with matching shorts or Capri pants if you like . . .” She smiled and Edith nodded, though only listening with half an ear as yet another style outfit in size 10-12 petite had her eye at the moment.

She saw the garment on an adjoining rack, among the others found on this nebulous expanse between the boy’s and girl’s wear. That place where the mix of garments mattered only to those who cared to filter through the mish-mash of displays to make the distinction - something that wasn’t on her mind at the moment. After all, he was a difficult boy to properly fit.

Given his unusual combination of girth and length she found the boy’s sizes too short, the men’s too wide and the selection slim to none. Whereas his cadet Blue trousers and shirts were custom tailored to fit, that was far too expensive a proposition for everyday wear. Especially when so many reasonable ready-made alternatives were available if you’re willing to broaden your prospects. As a practical woman, that was something Edith had acquiesced to long ago. As for Patrick, well, the tops, shorts and stockings did fit comfortably there could be no denying that. Likewise, the smooth, light and airy fabrics conformed in all the right ways to all the right places. Not at all like the scratchy, stiff cadet Blues that irritated his sensitive skin and were so stifling in the heat. A joy he could live without, at least until he grew into the proper boy’s sizes.

All the same, even had she bothered to look it was doubtful she’d have found anything as suitable on the “Tuff-boy” display. Leastwise, nothing as suitable as the French Terry-knit outfit in canary-yellow she had her eye on. With the matching pair of knee-high stockings, she thought the delightful “Angelina” top and matching flare-leg, drawstring shorts would coordinate nicely with her floral print dress and hand knit shawl - And so it did.

The outfit was one of her favorites. Not too loud with the right touch of style, or so she believed as they made their way through the congested isles of disbelieving onlookers. Then again outside, where the glare of the onlookers was as intense as the blazing Arizona sun. No less so than when she asked her dashing young nephew to make use of his sunshade so the sun wouldn’t damage his blanched skin or burn the top of his flattop head.

Edith thought it was a great way to spend the morning. Then when later that day they walked in to Ms. Stanton’s clinic and saw Nicky, she was sure it was going to be a great way to spend the afternoon. Finding Nicky there wasn’t altogether unexpected. Still, she feigned surprise to see that androgynous man-boy again, especially in view of Patrick. Still, what pleased the aunt did not seem to please the nephew.

Not two feet in the door he was already slouched over in melancholy and Ms. Stanton’s screeching voice could be heard reverberating off the walls directing Nicky to fetch a corset. “. . . Oh, and Nicky, please find a pretty one this time.”

Of course if Edith had in mind a delightful afternoon chat with Jane over a hot cup of tea sadly it was not to be. Jane had immediately cornered her to discuss a birthday gift she had in mind and wanted Edith to accompany her to the boutique to better coordinate their selection of gifts. Then without ado she wrapped her arm in hers and quickly ushered her outside to her waiting Karman-Ghia. “Don’t worry Barbara,” she called out over her shoulder before the door closed in their wake. “I’ll have her back promptly at four.”

Ms. Stanton rubbed her hands together, beamed a grin and quick as a blink undressed Patrick to conduct her cursory examination. Nicky returned in short order holding in his hands a white silk corset swathe with pink lace appliqué. Then holding up the silken finery for Patrick to see, he fluttered his long lashes, pursed his painted red lips and blow him a kiss, “Peach’esth, it’s perfect for you.”

It took all four arms and their combine strength to get him down from his 23” waist to a trim 20”; A Herculean feat given his 52kg (114 lb), 174cm (5’-7) wafer-thin frames. Not a lot there to pare down, but enough of a struggle to leave him gasping and nearly faint. He looked to be strangled in the white silk garment, and given the unlikely contrast with his flattop he looked every bit the curious creature. Squelched by the tightness and stiff as a board, he was a pigeon-toed, sissified mannequin from top to bottom, with two salient, pink plums offering up a proud academy salute, firm and erect.

“Nicky, quickly get a damp towel. The dear looks near faint.”

-----

Poor Mrs. Whipple, all she got for her struggle to squeeze her portly rear in the small seat of the Karman-Ghia was a run in her nylon hosiery and a bruise on the knee. It was a heroic effort, but it still took a helping hand from Jane to free a heel caught up in the stick-shift. The poor lady was in tatters and wishing she had not volunteered to come along. Jane, accustom to the inconveniences thought nothing of it as she helped to push a foot here, pull a leg there until the doors finally closed she was able to start out. She was very proud of “her” new car and all too willing to overlook the anguish written on Mrs. Whipple’s face.

Well . . . the car wasn’t exactly Jane’s. Ms. Stanton had given it to Nicky to help him get to and from his job at the Puss n’ Poodle club. A convertible, it was brand new and quite an eye-catching vehicle indeed. Custom painted cotton candy pink with white leather interior trimmed with a fluffy, synthetic pink fur, it was a chick-mobile in the truest sense of the word. An original valley-girl’s dream machine, garish and prim, with its g-string hanging on the mirror and a one-of-a-kind perfume aerator attached to the A/C. Not the most sedate way to negotiate the quiet, tree lined streets of their small suburban community, but the perfect “gift” for the glitz and glitter across the river.

Well . . . that wasn’t exactly true either. It wasn’t a gift. Barbara said he could pay her back helping out at the club after hours. There was always an odd job or two, where a pretty boy could lend a hand, or whatever. Something Jane couldn’t have been more than happy about, or so she said as she continued on talking. It was a one-sided discussion that began when they met up earlier at Barbara’s house and continued on nonstop as they puttered down the lane. “After all, she needs all the help she can get. She’s involved with so much I can hardly see how she makes it through the day.”

Well . . . that was true. Although that wasn’t something Edith Whipple knew a lot about, but with her politeness light on auto pilot she just smiled as Jane continued to rattle on. “With so much on her plate, you know, with her practice here and the club in Las Oasis. She’s a very busy woman.”

“I can imagine.” Well . . . actually she couldn’t! Fact is, it wasn’t until quite recently Edith learned of Barbara’s other enterprise. The woman she knew was a professional practitioner of homeopathy with a little practice squirreled away in her quiet suburban community, and she was beginning to realize what she really knew about her she could fit in her sewing thimble.

“Besides, Nicky so enjoys the job and the money! Good lord, do you know that besides this beautiful car he earns two hundred dollars a night . . . plus tips!” she intentional stressed the “plus tips” with an exaggerated tone, though she didn’t have to. That kind of money was likely to capture anyone’s attention. A staggering amount when you consider a house like Edith’s cost less than twenty-thousand and earning fifty dollars a day was big money. It certainly was enough to have her ear. “My word, that’s the most generous wage I’ve ever heard.”

“Isn’t it though? And the benefits . . . Why I’m so excited about it all. You know, not that long ago I could hardly sleep at night worrying about what was to become of him. Being left to raise a boy not too different from your Patrick, only worse, he was an aimless lout destine for who knows what. And just look now. What Barbara has done for him, and how she ‘helped him find his rightful place in the world’ is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

“Find his rightful place in the world!” Jane was pushing all the right buttons, and her well chosen words sounded off like the winning payout on a slot machine. “Cha-ching!”

Edith had heard the sentiment expressed before. In Barbara’s office; and though she hadn’t given much thought to it then, it suddenly began to mean so much more. Of course, she had no reason to suspect the thought might have been intentionally planted. All she could see was the visions of her Patty driving down the street in his new pink Karman-Ghia his face glowing with pride in himself and his newly acquired affluence.

They pulled up to the M’Lady Boutique, parking in front and close enough to the window display to see the latest in exquisite lingerie. It was a place that catered to the affluent and hardly affordable on Edith’s meager budget. So imagine her surprise when Jane began pointing out a pair of gartered stockings of the finest Chantille lace as her idea of a gift - for her Patty! Beside the mannequin another wearing a shear, white silk baby-doll nightie and panty set lavishly trimmed with Flemish lace appliqué.

“That one,” she pointed to as an ideal coordinate — the ideal gift for her to buy her nephew. Edith was breathless. The mental photo she had taken of her Patty driving down the lane in his shiny new car with a big smile was suddenly shattered when she realized they wanted him to wear a painted face for the picture! Something that not only came as a shock, it also piqued her pride. She wondered what Edith could possibly be thinking of her, or her nephew.

“Jane, I think you’ve got this all wrong,” she ventured with a flush. “I’m proud to say my Patty is a young cadet and wants to join the army to serve his country with honor and dignity.”

“Yes and my Nicky is a dancer. I hope you don’t think any less of him, because I don’t.”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean to imply . . .”

“I’m sure you didn’t. It’s just costuming after all, nothing more. No different than combat boots and helmet with camouflage netting. Certainly no different than what you wish to make of it. Barbara has taught me that we’re all different, but equally perfect. Though I must admit the idea also seemed contrary to me at first, but where would my Nicky be if I hadn’t listened to Barbara’s advice? She knows what ails children and as it has proven out, no one could have been the wiser.”

It was the mention of Barbara that caused Edith’s retreat. Jane could see it written on her drawn face as she looked away to avert her gaze. With her fingers nervously fidgeting with a tissue in her hand, she looked as if a woman at war with herself. Inside, the battle raged between the two minds of the conflicted woman. Outside, she looked as if some dark hidden secret had just been exposed to the light of the bright Arizona sun. There was a lingering, silent pause, each waiting to see who would take the next critical step. It was an important moment and one Jane knew was going to have to work or - she had fun with the thought — they’d have to resort to Barbara’s dastardly Plan B!

Leaning in close she took hold of Edith’s hand, and without further delay went straight for the juggler. “. . . Besides, they’ll look lovely with the pumps Barbara has bought for his birthday. You wouldn’t want to disappoint now, would you?”

Jane kissed her softly on the cheek. Then after lingering a long moment she pulled away and smiled. “Come now, just for fun . . . It’s an exciting new world out there and you’ll not want to miss a minute of it.”

Poor Edith, she felt as might an accomplice who kept the car running as her partner in crime fled with the money in hand from the bank. It was a blood-pumping, exhilarated guilty flutter that left Mrs. Longing reveling in the heat and Mrs. Pride nearly faint. And calling out above the maelstrom, Jane’s resonate voice, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

So not “wanting to disappoint,” she lay down her armor, and her arms at the feet of Mrs. Longing. Then leaving her good sense to wilt in the hot desert sun, she reached for her purse and opened the door . . .

----

. . . Stepping out and closing the door behind, Nicky hurriedly left to retrieve a damp towel from the kitchen. Patrick was rendered rigid and immobile, fixed in place on wobbly knees by the corset. Barbara stood close by holding his hand to steady him awaiting Nicky’s quick return. For a moment she was sure he was about to faint, but by the time Nicky had returned with a damp towel to press upon his forehead he had already regained enough of his composure to walk him toward the gymnast mat.

To say that the confining garment rid the poor boy of his slouching would have not have given the garment its due. The restricted mobility forced the subdued creature to have to walk with a mince and caused his hips and robust bottom to sway to accommodate the shortened stride. Like some iron-fisted gripe it robbed him of his breathe, and like an extension of her hand rendered the mummified boy defenseless.

All this was done with the utmost discretion of course. Ms. Stanton was the consummate professional after all and, to protect her good reputation, she told him she had his aunt’s enthusiastic and wholehearted approval to ratchet up his program. “There’ll be no nonsense from this moment on,” she warned him, and if he thought her demands were too severe . . . well, he’d just have to, “soldier-up, dig deep for some of that Sgt. Rock grit and bear it.”

This was a whole new Ms. Stanton. He could see that in the suspect glimmer in her eye when she tightened the lacing of the corset to the point of catastrophic failure. And along with that glazed look in her eyes she wore an enigmatic grin as she went about her heavy-handed ways. All far beyond even her usual level of insensitivity and seemingly quite calculated, as if part of a script she was yet to have him read.

But how could that script read any different? He had always been compliant to the nth degree. After all, he wanted to measure-up, and the determination it took to be somebody special was a man thing made of grit and bravado. He always dug deep for what it took to sustain and bear it. Even in the face of so little progress he never gave up trying, doing so with a relish, hoping one day he’d overcome the malaise that seemed to grow worse, not better by the day. If he could do more, he didn’t know how.

Surely she could see that, yet instead of a sympathetic pat on the back she gave him an unsympathetic grin becoming more strident and heavy-handed by the day. Almost as if to break his will, but why? Just trying to count all the possible reasons caused his suspicions to grow exponentially, and as his suspicions grew so did his mistrust. Where once he believed in her and all she was doing, now he didn’t.

Obvious he would've liked to slap Ms. Stanton senseless and run off to a safe place. That is, if he could. Like everything else about his life these things were easier said than done. In truth, he could no more stand up to her than he could his aunt. His aunt had surrendered complete control to her without demur, and what voice he did have Ms. Stanton heard with just one ear. The other focused on what she was bent on doing whether he agreed or not. All seemingly designed to entrap him yet further, diminish him into a little prissy, like Nicky, that paragon of manliness.

Still, not all was without hope. As is the case in even the darkest tale there was always the possibility the villain might lose the upper hand or unwittingly expose a vulnerability. Until then, he'd just have stand by and let his suspicions grow and hatred fester as he considered ways to save himself from her clutches. A resolution he made to himself, though it certainly wasn’t going to happen this day.

Nope! Today the master craftswoman and her young apprentice were determined to finish the assembly of their project in the works. All done forthright without hedging or subtlety, and began immediately the moment he began his floor exercises to firm up the flab on his chest and buttock. Exercise that only seemed to exacerbate instead of improve his condition. Punishing under any circumstance, but bound in that corset and with Nicky all over him like a tight pair of pants, he was in a constant state of swoon. The whole while they assessed, fit and hammered away on their version of the Queen Mary, and following his every move was that haunting, purrr-plexing grin, glowing pearly white against the darkened backdrop.

It was left to Nicky to pound home the finishing nail. Perched upon the white sheeted gurney head down, bottom up like a ship in dry-dock, Nicky was given the task of planting the new bowsprit — new, as in one step up the linear order! To make her point, she handed Nicky the post with all the ceremony of a sea captain inaugurating a new vessel then stepped aside to salute. But a ship he was not, at least not yet, and if they planned on turning this dingy into the Queen Mary it wouldn’t come without a struggle, or so he’d try.

A new wise saying: Be careful what promises you make, even to yourself, because the expert deck hand can right a troublesome fitting. Not so much a broken heart, but then his heart wasn’t what the heavy hand of Barbara Stanton sought to correct. A thorough job she did with it too. She had that wretched fitting shipshape and ready to do duty in less time than it took to say . . .

“You-whooo,” that would be Jane, chirpy and buoyant as a Merry-andrew returning from shopping with Mrs. Whipple in tow. “What a lovely day.”

“Ah-hu, it is indeed,” that would be Barbara, miles away in her thoughts as she attaches the second liter bag of her special substance to the tubing.

“Oh look, Miss’esth Stanton, pretty gifts,” that would be Nicky, sunny as a spring day as he fastidiously wiped his hands clean of the lubricant. “I already got my gift.”

“Yes you do. You’re giving the gift that just keeps giving,” added Barbara, reaching up to pinch his cheek in passing. Then turning to face Edith, she smiled and motioned for her to come and stand beside her. “Almost done, Edith. In all, I think our little Musclemaniac has taken the lot rather well.”

Edith joined Barbara and looked down at her nephew. She heaved a deep sigh, and then embraced his grateful smile as she wiped the glint of moisture from his lashes. Then without further ado, she reached up to turn the petcock.
 
 
Chapter 5
 
 
Monday morning 9 a.m:
“. . . Rogers, present sir! Cummings, present SIR! Donaldson, present sir! Whipple . . . Whipple?” Ssgt. Web put down the morning roll call and looked over the top of his glasses toward the empty seat that should have been occupied by Cadet Patrick Whipple. That would be S-s-g-t, as in Staff Sergeant, and Web, as in Patrick’s disgruntled headmaster. Dressed smartly in his Dress Blues, the gray haired gentlemen looked quite distinguished with a long track of stripes and chevrons down the length of his sleeves, his shoes shining with a glassy luster and on his dress jacket all the medals from his distinguished service in three wars. Standing tall at the podium, he leered with a scowl as he studied his class of cadets. All sitting stiffly upright in their cadet blues, with hands folded on top of their desk and a blank look on their faces.

“Stewart!” He barked with the ferocity of a cornered Pit Bull. “Sir!” A tall, red headed boy in the front row smartly snapped to attention and shouted his response. “It says here Cadet Whipple signed in this morning. Where is he?”

“Sir, I don’t know, sir!”

“Check the Head, quick time, boy!”

“Yes, SIR!” As young Cadet Stewart hurriedly replied, a pent up snicker rolled through the room, but quickly quieted when headmaster Web glared with a menace for signs of the culprits. The room was so quiet you could hear a cough down the hall as Ssgt. Web walked slowly up and down the isles to size up the matter. As he approached the rear of the class he heard a shuffling coming from inside the coatroom.

Although a subtle movement, it wasn’t hard to pick up on any noise in a room absent any sound other that one owns breath. Knowing to look inside he opened the coatroom door, reached in to switch on the light and quickly scanned the long line of dress coats all neatly hung along the perimeter of the 8x10 room. “Sir,” Cadet Steward shouted after again coming to attention upon his return. “Sir, I didn’t find Cadet Whipple, Sir!”

The snickering again flared up and thinking he’d have to quickly get to the bottom of this, he reached in to switch off the light. Having a problem finding the switch with his hand, he looked in to locate it and saw what had been out of his field of vision until now. In the corner and next to the light switch was Cadet Whipple, buttoned inside his coat and hanging a foot off the ground from the coat hook. The poor boy looked a scarecrow with his shoulders pushed up around his ears and his arms trapped in the jacket sleeves hanging out straight.

“Damn it, boy!” Ssgt. Web growled as he hurried to unhook Patrick to let him down. “I can’t take my eyes off you even for a second!” With Patrick again safely on his feet he noticed that other than the  ¾ waist coat he had been buttoned into, he appeared to otherwise be without any clothes.

Well . . . not exactly. It seems that once the headmaster unbuttoned his coat he saw that he was not entirely without cover. Though not much besides a short, pleated white tennis skirt and what looked like a training bra. “DAMN . . . BOY! If you’re not the most pathetic pansy I’ve ever seen,” Ssgt. Web glared down at him with his fists resting on his hips and in a rather bad mood. “How’d you get into this, boy?”

Poor Patrick, now in tears, was beside himself and to ashamed to speak. “Stewart, tell me quick boy, what do you know about this!”

“Sir, I don’t know anything, Sir!”

“Nothing, BOY?” Ssgt. Web gave him a menacing glare. “Sir, only what I’ve heard, Sir.”

“What you’ve heard . . . hmmm, well . . . What is it boy?”

“Sir, yes sir,” young Cadet Stewart replied, then lowering his voice to a barely audible mumble, “I heard some boys wanted to fag him, Sir.”

“FAG HIM . . . who did?” Web barked out now entirely pissed off. “Sir, I can’t say, Sir!”

“Can’t say BOY?”

“Sir, yes Sir, I’m bound by my word of honor, Sir!” The boy bravely replied, but fearing the worse, looked away to avoid his glare. “Word of honor my ass, BOY! Before I’m through you’ll be willing to incriminate your grandmother. So where’s his clothes?” he asked as he pulled up on the hem of the short skirt revealing a pair of shiny, white silk panties. “Holy, mother of . . .”

“Bathroom, Sir,” the boy followed.

“Well go get them and be quick about it boy!”

“Can’t Sir, they’re in the toilet and someone has used the facility, Sir.” The tittering turned to laughter. Ssgt. Web scowled in that direction then just shook his head. “Damn poor . . . damn, damn poor . . . Well, run off quick time boy and get Major Bushmire.”

-----

“Yes ma’am, they were his sister’s clothes,” replied Major Bushmire, his disgust painted on his face. Edith Whipple sat across from him dressed in a house dress and apron, her knitting still on her lap. Between them stood young Patrick still dressed in his heeler loafers and white knee socks that matched his lovely new skirt, bra and panty. “Leastwise that’s the story the boy’s are sticking too.”

It had been a traumatic day for our young hero starting from the moment he boarded the bus. Living farthest from the school he was always the last to board and like always, they were all waiting for him. He took the seat behind the driver always left vacant while the other boys huddled together toward the rear. They wanted to sit as far away from the sissy as was humanly possible, except Jeffrey Morse, one of the bad guys at school and Patrick’s worse fear. Today, Jeffery chose to sit in the seat immediately behind him.

Over the roar of the diesel the driver could hear little of the taunting, the laughter and ridicule. Or if he did, chose not to take notice. He seldom did. Not withstanding someone leaving their seat it was truly a teenage wasteland for the thirty minute ride - literally every man for him self. And if he wasn’t motivated to do anything about the boys pelting Patrick with spitballs why would he show concerned when he saw a gym bag being passed up from the rear to Jeffrey? He paid it no more notice than the roar of laughter that followed when Jeff pulled out a pair of panties and set it in a pile on top of Patrick’s flattop head.

Of course Patrick didn’t respond, but he knew what was going on. Jeffrey’s threat to fag him before the end of school had been going on for weeks, and as promised, today they had brought the panties they would make him wear. Patrick didn’t want to look or react. That would be giving them what they wanted. Still, hiding his eyes was one thing, hiding the fear and the intimidation was another. He was visually shaking as Jeffrey dragged the panties over his head and the bus rocked from the laughter.

Upon arriving at school he tried to keep his distance from them, giving sufficient leeway before departing the bus. After everyone had disappeared into the building he followed to sign the morning register that was required of all the boys who arrived early by bus. Neither Jeffrey nor his cohorts were anywhere around by the time he was through, and believing himself lucky went to his classroom to take a seat to await the later arrivals. The path seemed clear and safe enough, but as he passed the coatroom, Jeffrey, Chris Myers and Martin Philips popped out, grabbed him and pushed him into the closet, closing the door behind.

There wasn’t a lot of fight in him, though some of that might have been expected. After all Jeffrey and Martin were two of the biggest, roughest leathernecks in the school, both nearly as big as the formidable Ssgt. Web, and worse, the apple of his eye. Over the years he had been subject to untold bullying from them. And all he ever got in response when he got a knot on the head was, “Don’t be a wimp, boy,” or “Stop your damn sniffling and act like a man!”

Other than cry, he was too frightened to do anything else to save himself. There was nothing he could do at any extent, so when it was certain he wasn’t going to escape his fate he volunteered to put the clothes on without their help. It was only the early arrival of Tim Olin that saved his butt. Hearing the scuffling in the closet he burst in on them catching Jeffrey literally with his pants down.

Seeing what was going on he quickly put a stop to it. Tim was one of the few boys in school who Jeffrey respected, not so much for his size as for his ranking on the boy’s boxing team. He was also a good guy who on occasion stood up for Patrick. Though not because he was sympathetic, but because he had a solid sense of fair play. This time too, and fortunate for Patrick, he wasn’t listening to any excuses. It wasn’t that Jeff didn’t try to explain it all away, looking rather foolish standing as he was with his pants gathered around his knees. “The little fag wants it. Look he even dressed himself.”

“You’re the only fag I see you damn prick. Want to fag someone try me and I’ll see what we can do about stuffing that prick of yours up your ass.” The threat wasn’t taken lightly, and even though he was out numbered 3 to 1 the scramble from the coatroom was like an alarm sounding off in a firehouse. That is, except for Martin. Determined not to let the threat deter him, he managed to lag behind long enough to hang Patrick on the coat rack while nobody was watching.

-----

“. . . And you are sure you believe their story, Mr. Bushmire?” A shaken Mrs. Whipple asked, remaining starchy erect and unmoved throughout the exchange. Not that she disagreed with the good Major Bushmire, or would doubt his word. He was a straightforward man of unquestionable integrity, and like Barbara Stanton he was a man with a firm commanding hand. She liked that about him, but then he was a man, not a woman and somehow she just didn’t feel inspired by the same sense of awe.

For his part, Major Bushmire didn’t like having his integrity in question. If he had known better he would have let Greta Buller accompany him as she had wanted. There wasn’t much his school nurse couldn’t handle. A retired WAC drill instructor, if she couldn’t handle this hardheaded spinster no one could. All the same, he hadn’t and now he was sitting on a keg of dynamite that presented as big a challenge as any on the field of battle, the loss of which would reflect badly on the school, the careers of several young men as well as his own.

For him it was a sacrifice of one for the betterment of many. Defeat was not an option, at least not for a gentleman of his persuasion. So he furrowed his bushy brows to show his displeasure with her. Then he peered in as if to say “lady, mind your place” while his bald, spit-shined head refracted the overhead light into the spectrum of red.

“I understand your concern over this, but I can’t emphasize enough that these are solid your men, outstanding soldiers, all from very influential families. If it isn’t the truth then I’m sure there would be severe legal consequences, courts, attorneys and lots of public attention with accusations of moral turpitude, or worse, charges of deviant homosexual behavior. Furthermore I must warn, you might not like the way the axe might fall,” he spit out with terseness, as if to remind young Patrick of what was at stake.

“Of course, we shouldn’t let that sway us from knowing the truth, but as he doesn’t deny it, I’m afraid I have no choice but believe the boy’s story true just as they stated. So unless Patrick says otherwise the story is that Chris Myers brought his sister’s gym bag to school accidentally believing it to be his own. He only discovered this fact when putting the gym bag away in the coatroom and that’s when Patrick unknown to anyone put the clothes on. Now, isn’t that right Patrick? Isn’t this story you and your fellow cadets told me?”

“Y-y-yes Sir,” Patrick managed to mumble after taking some moments to reflect upon the carpet below his feet. All the same he already knew the answer he had to give. No mention of the “intended” fagging, no mention of being hung upon the clothes hook was the way it had to be, and he needn’t bother lifting his tear spotted face as he drove in the finishing nail, “That’s the truth of it, Sir.”

“That’s right, son. Now tell your aunt why you did it,” Major Bushmire followed while prompting Patrick to respond with a slapped on the back. “Come now, you don’t have to be shy. Be a big boy, there’s no shame in wanting to dress in girl’s clothes. Every boy goes through this one time or another. No harm whatsoever. Just tell her the truth and it’ll all be done. I’m sure she’ll be very understanding and supportive. She just needs to know the truth, so just repeat what you told me.”

The words did not come easily. In fact it was down right gut-wrenching to have to spit out the contrived confession. It was like spitting out what remained of his manhood. All that Ms. Stanton had not yet stolen from him was now going to be finished off by the Major and his classmates, and there was nothing to be done about it. “I . . . ahm . . . I like pretty clothes.”

“Well Patty . . . I’m sorry, I just didn’t know,” Edith paused, cause off-guard by the admission. She had wanted to believe his classmates were responsible for the mischief, but after her nephew’s confession she didn’t know what to think, or how she should react. She looked as if she was thinking very hard for a long minute, before her face went relax and the uncertainty in her eyes evaporated, replaced with an obliging nod and again, that guilty flutter in her stomach. “You should have told me, Patty.”

“That’s a good boy. Now that it’s off your chest I’m sure you feel much better. I know your good friends at school will feel relieved as well. Ever so, I think it would be best if you remain at home for the remaining days of the school term. You can help your aunt about the house like a good boy . . . perhaps use the time to work things out,” he hurried broke it off — and good riddance Patrick thought. However, after the major rose up from his chair Patrick quickly realized his relief was only short-lived. The Major still had one final nail in his hand he had yet to nail in his coffin.

“You know, modern thought on the matter is if you let him play out his fantasies instead of punishing him he may soon grow tired of it. Or so our school nurse assures me. She’s a very knowledgeable source in these matters and an opinion I wholly trust. Just something you might like to think about Ma’am. In the meantime you can expect me to send his diploma to you in the mail,” he finished his diatribe, happy to wipe his hands of the whole affair.

Along with Patrick’s supposed admission to his cross-dressing tendencies the school was absolved of legal responsibility. It was done, but a clever man knows not to let such matters linger in the open for to long. There is always the chance it might not hold up to closer scrutiny. So not wanting to wait around to see his good work undone, he put on his hat in haste and didn’t even wait to be escorted out the door.

--------

After supper Edith put Patrick to bed early. Again, it had been a trying day for them both, and though she didn’t want to show it, a bit overwhelming. After she was sure he was asleep, she sat in the family room in the dark with the phone on her lap. With so much on her mind she needn’t to talk with someone and thought to call Barbara.

The buying spree at the boutique and all the things Jane had told her still reverberated in her thoughts. And now with all this cross-dressing business at school, she didn’t know what to think. She supposed she should call to let Barbara know what had happened. She wanted nothing more then to share the burden to help relieve the worry, or just help clear up the muddle. Unfortunately it was also late and not wanting to disturb Barbara this late at night, Edith went to bed not knowing what she was going to do in the morning.

Edith had a short, intermittent rest and got up much earlier than expected when she received a phone call from Barbara. It was almost as if she willed it during the long night of restless sleep. Just the sound of her voice immediately eased the worry, but it did not come without a price. Along with the advocacy came the enigma that was Barbara Stanton. Listening to her was like sweet torture a masochist couldn’t do without, and it began almost immediately with Barbara’s first words. “Edith, I heard about what happened to Patty at school.”

She offered no explanations as to how she could have possibly known about what had happened to Patrick. She didn’t even bother to respond to her question about it. She just carried on, reassuring her she hadn’t need to worry. That everything was quite normal and in accordance with “modern thought” - something Edith was hearing a lot these days.

Listening to her was almost like listening to the good Major Bushmire. From her way of thinking it all made sense. It was just a silly bit all boys go through and should be free to explore as a natural course. She also sounded excited for Patrick, believing he had come upon an important moment in his young life. “Think about it Edith, all this coming about on the week of his graduation, when it was still unclear as to what he was going to do after. I don’t know if you believe in fate, but if this wasn’t meant to be, I don’t know what is.”

“Fate!” - The usual refuge of the dishonest. In truth, this entire scenario had been carefully scripted by Barbara, Jane and their well-placed accomplice. But Edith didn’t know that. Nor had she reason to suspect any wrong doing as she listened to Barbara plot a zigzag course from one point to another. She listened as if in a trance, following the meandering course almost as twisted as her logic until she posed a question that brought Edith out of her reverie. “Look on the sunny side, Edith. It’s a great opportunity. His program has been lagging of late anyway, now he’ll have time to put in extra work. No extra costs to you, so if you’ve no objections I’ll be over in an hour to pick him up.”

“Why certainly, but you needn’t go out of your way. I can bring him in this afternoon.”

“No need, Edith. I have to pick up Greta Buller anyway so it’ll be easier for me.”

“Greta Buller?” Edith echoed, uncertain as to why she should know the name.

“A friend of mine, Edith. She’s a health practitioner who will be working with me this summer to help relieve my busy schedule. So if that’s alright with you my love, I’ll see you in an hour.”

--------

Edith scarcely had time to bath Patrick and prepare a light breakfast before Barbara’s Mercedes pulled into the driveway followed by the knock upon the door. Removing her apron she hurried him along to meet Ms. Stanton, only stopping to quickly survey him to make sure every hair on his flattop head was in order. Dressed in his white cotton shorts and tank top, knee socks and heeled, buckle-strap loafers, she opened the door pleased with how smart he looked. However, she didn’t gather as much from the pained look on Barbara’s face. It was as if she expected to still see him dressed in skirt and bra.

“Morning Edith,” chirped the buoyant Ms. Stanton as she entered and affectionately wrapping her arms around her waist. “Edith this is Greta Buller. Greta this is Edith Whipple and her nephew Patty. I think Patty and you have already met.”

Indeed they had, and perhaps if he knew she would be standing at his door he would have found a way not to be. Greta was the school nurse affectionately called “The Bull” for her unsympathetic, bullying tact. Patrick had been in to see her often over the years and he was not a happy camper seeing her once again. It was like a punch in the gut that immediately had him looking up for his aunt’s intervention with his pleading eyes, only she wasn’t looking. She was too busy sizing up the Bull.

While Patrick knew her, Edith did not. Tall, lean and fifty-something, she looked quite formidable, almost manly given the figurative sense of the word. With her pug nose and thick brow she looked like a Pit Bull terrier, and dressed in a khaki green army dress she looked like one on a search and destroy mission. She didn’t think much about the prospects of leaving her nephew in the hands of this woman, a health professional or not.

However, wrapped up like some captive prey in Barbara’s arms, it was a bit difficult to speak her mind, especially after Barbara looked sternly into her eyes. “Rest assured, Edith. She’s very authoritative and quite abreast on the issues. She’s a longtime associate and confidante, and her skill has helped many a misfit boy find his rightful place in the world. All of them are now happy, vital and much sought after I can assure you.”

After a promise to have him home before super, Edith watched them drive off with a teary-eyed Patrick squeezed between them. She tried to think of it as seeing him off to school. To be schooled in what she didn’t know exactly, but she didn’t want to dwell on that. No, she couldn’t-wouldn’t allow herself to believe wrong of Barbara Stanton, and too proud to admit it if she did.

Instead she chose to think of it as his being in Barbara’s capable hands, believing she’d do only what’s best for him. She went back in, but before closing the door she chose to take a final glimpse of the shiny new Mercedes before it disappeared round the bend. She looked back but suddenly found herself blinded by the high morning sun. Like a sudden, intense flash of a light in a darkened room, it momentarily obscured her vision of the car and washed away all remaining thoughts about her teary-eyed nephew. Only the thoughts and the vision foremost in her mind remained. Those that permeated her existence like the air she breathed — those images of Barbara’s striking beauty and those thoughts of her arresting poise and grandeur. Then suffering those feelings too shameful to own and too prideful to admit she heaved a big sigh and closed the door.

-----

Edith was looking out the kitchen window watching some sparrows feeding from the satellite disk in the Crawford’s backyard. The thing was an eye sore, in total disrepair, dormant, and facing straight up toward the heavens to nowhere. It served only as a bird feed now, collecting sand and rain water after the occasional desert storm in its grotesque concave bowl. Although it hadn’t always been so.

For many years it also served to support a clothesline and during the Holiday Season the Crawford’s had made it a habit to decorate it with Christmas lights. She hated it and thought it had finally reached its demise when Christmas last old Mr. Crawford went up on a metal ladder to replace a bulb after a rare rainstorm. The cheap Chinese made fixtures had a defect that only came to light (no pun intended) when submerged in the pooled water. The shock sent him flying across the yard breaking his arm in the fall and permanently straightened what was left of his naturally curl hair. It also shorted out half the houses on the block and the home owners association quickly put the Kibosh to that. She hadn’t seen him but once since the electrifying experience, but she could see that he carried off the new Einstein hair style well, due comeuppance she thought. Still the dish stood there eye sore that it was, serving as their bird feeder. Of course she wanted to see it physically brought down, often scheming on ways that might be done. But she was just an old woman after all, and her Patty, well . . .

-----

“. . . Why Patrick, I didn’t know you could warble in such a lovely soprano,” Barbara spat out in a rather vulgar voice. “A rather high soprano I might add.”

“Sounds more like castrato if you ask me,” Greta curtly followed.

“Hmmm,” Barbara carried on with her play on words. “Well, not yet, but I know inside every toughie there’s a caged tweetie just waiting to be set free.”

“Well now, ain’t that a fact! The cockier the bird struts, the higher he sings. A bit of pretty primping always raises a tenor up the scale a step, or two. Then tart-up the brisket and the tail feathers and Wall-ah! You’ve got a sashaying, warbling tweetie that could raise the dead and heal the sick with a simple swish of the hips.”

Barbara’s sly grin mirrored Greta’s as she watched the scene play out from the bathroom door, marveling as she applied her craft. No doubt she was in a league of her own. With Patrick bottom up and draped over her knee, she was diligently working the new blue — as in boy - appliance assuring a comfortable fit. And given the magnitude of this precedent setting event, Greta couldn’t have been more pleased. Still, having to take into account the need for Patrick to catch his wind every now and again did make it a very measured process.

It was also a very emotional process. In fact, you could say Patrick was stuffed to the gills with just about every kind of feeling at the moment — and in more ways than one. Actually there were two, as in the two forces that seemed to be pushing and pulling on him at the same time. Pulled on by the feelings of guilt over his failing, believing he had only himself to blame for still not “measuring up.” And pushed by his need to prove he was that “special boy” his aunt and Ms. Stanton believed him to be. This push and pull was a boy thing made of bravado and grit, and all pushed home by Greta’s firm hand and pulled out by Ms. Stanton’s cruel, nonstop cajoling.

The creation of Barbara’s one-of-a-kind quality product was now in Greta’s capable hands, and from an observers point of view it made for quite a show. Barbara thought this scene alone was worth the cost of admission and Greta’s grin, well . . . priceless! All this and they still had the better part of the afternoon to go.

When all the preparations were finally done, Greta turned the petcock and looked up toward Barbara with a gleam in her eye that could have lit up a city block. “You know Eric has been saying he found it as easy as slicing a knife through butter.”

“Is that right, Patty? You relaxed nicely for Eric but not for Greta?” What’s that tell you, Greta?” She asked, her words spit out like venom from her smiling red lips. Patrick just shook his head as if somehow that could negate the lie. He would have liked to do more to express his outrage, but at the time anything more than a grunt a bit hard to come by.

“Dunno,” Greta replied, “maybe I should pretend I’m Eric.”

“Hum, that might be nice, better yet, Nicky!” laughed Barbara before turning to check the time . . .

-----

. . . It was five o’clock when Edith set aside her knitting to finish preparations for dinner. The roast nearly done, she returned to her kitchen to turn down the heat when she heard Barbara’s car turning in the driveway. She hurried out to greet them as Barbara escorted a decidedly different Patty than the boy she sent off in his smart boy clothes some hours before. Gone were the crisp new shorts and tank top.

In their stead he wore a pair of brief, skin-tight shorts and a ribbon-strap halter that exposed his midriff. Across the front of the halter it read “Puss E Willow” in sequins that refracted the myriad of colors in the sunlight. And between the large capitals “P” and “W,” two discernible and no longer deniable peaks wobbling ever so slightly with each hip swaying, high-heeled step. That’s high heels, as in pumps, white patient leather with narrow three inch heels. Though quite apt at walking on his toes, it was still a short, cautious, heel to toe stride that took a firm grasp of Barbara’s hand to steady him as she walked him to the door.

Edith greeted him with a warm smile and a hug, her hand pressing his face to her bosom. Then after a long moment she pulled his face away and held him at arms length thinking she needed to have a better look at him. At least that’s what she thought she needed just to make sure the sun wasn’t playing tricks on her. After all, mirages were common place in this part of the world and it was a hot sun over head.

However, her second, closer look had proven the sun wasn’t that hot. At least not hot enough to explain the scalding vision that loomed at arms length. His flattop, short on the sides and high and flat on top stood in stark contrast to his sumptuously sculptured face. With a hint of blusher on his cheeks, blue mascara and pink painted lips he composed quite an imaginative, though delightful work of fiction.

It was an interesting bit of work to say the least, but it was his clothes that truly tilted the composition to the extreme. Especially the crop top with its ribbon thin shoulder straps that hung just low enough to honorably cover the twin jut peaks. Further down the heels lifted and fluffed up his bottom like two plump, form-fit pillows. The shorts too were a bit of a meager peel, scarcely able to contain the ripe fruit beneath. Given the contour of their low, hip-hugging fit and the high upward arc of the leg-cut, the skimpy cover exposed a bit too much cheek by any standards. That is, unless . . . ahm, unless he just happened to be dressed to kill for some girlie-boy strip show at a Las Oasis City casino.

Like the ingredients that make up a pie offer little until combined, you had to see it on him to see how well it all worked together, especially those shorts and heels. Like lemon and meringue, a pretty pie topped with a small pearl in just one ear, and a hint of candy cane pink on his lips. The very same shade of pink lipstick that matched the pink smudge mark Patrick had left on the white lace covering Edith’s bosom. “Sorry about that Edith,” Barbara giggled, “I should have warned you. Don’t worry I’ll have that cleaned for you.”

Poor Mrs. Whipple, the woman looked bound hand and foot and even to find the mechanism to respond seemed a labor. Tongue tied and shell-shocked, she flushed a beet red and behind the white of her rapt brown eyes the battle raged. The two sides of Mrs. Whipple were fighting it out, each vying to see who would fill in the void and the voice of the routed Mrs. Whipple. It was war, and when done, there would be blood on the tracks. And while there is nothing amusing about the chaos and disorder in a bloody fight-to-the-finish, quite frankly, the state of the battle that raged within Mrs. Whipple was so palpable you could almost “hear” her buckle and cringe.

In a scene that could have been plucked from the pages of a Marvel comic, “Kapow . . !” Mrs. Stubborn Pride took a left directly on the chin from Mrs. Wistfully Longing. “Ooomph!” grunted Mrs. Longing as Mrs. Pride fired back with a right to the solar plexus.

Of course, we already know what side of the fight Barbara was pulling for, and wanting to tilt the battlefield in her favor she thought the time right to bring out the heavy weaponry. “The lipstick goes well with his outfit, don’t you think? I had it lying around and thought why not a bit of dress-up fun. You know, to indulge his fancy a little and add a bit of sweet flavor to the session. Given “Modern thought” and all, I thought it only best. I hope you don’t mind,” she feigned her patented wide-eyed ‘innocent’ pout before coming around behind her to again wrap her arms around her waist.

It was a glorious moment for Barbara and her satisfaction was written across the length of her smile. Then as she leaned in to whisper in Edith’s ear, she could no longer mute the glee that bubbled up and took on a life of its own. “Like the name on the halter, Edith? I chose it just for him - after that pretty Willow of yours around back!”

“Kaboom . . !” she had Mrs. Pride doubled with the body shot.

Resting her head on Edith’s shoulder she was eye to eye with Patrick and blew him a kiss. “Patty darling, why don’t you run along to the car and get your lipstick from my purse. Oh, and some tissue, you can use a touch up.”

Together they watched him gingerly waddle his way back toward the car, looking not unlike a young girl’s first day on skates. “Hmmm, now that he’s off and busy tidying up let’s go see what we can do about that stain on your bodice?”

“Pow . . !” another right landed square on Mrs. Pride’s jaw. Picking herself up off the floor (figuratively) she soon found herself in the bathroom, alone with Barbara, the door closed behind. “It’ll be easier to clean if you take off the dress, Edith.”

“Whap . . !” a follow-up left jab that had Mrs. Pride on the ropes. In a daze she tried to fight back, but no longer having the upper hand she soon found herself succumbing to Mrs. Longing and handed over her dress, only her undergarments remain.

“Oh my, but your undergarments look to be such a comfortable fit,” she beams her radiant smile while fondling Edith’s sagging, rotund globes. “I always have the most difficult time buying the right one, what with one breast larger than the other and all. It’s not easy being a bit lopsided you know. Here . . .” she carries on as she continued to intimately caress the old woman, “. . . Let me show you.”

“Wham! Pow! Ker-ploosh!” Mrs. Longing followed with a rapid fire combination of jabs that left Mrs. Pride reeling.

Breathless, Mrs. Pride could scarcely stand as the object of Mrs. Longing’s desire stripped off all but her panties and asked her to have a closer look. “See the lines where the elastic binds and chafes here and here too . . . ” Barbara purred between sultry pursed lips, her hands lifting up her heaving, massive breasts until her nipples fronted the old woman’s face. “Please, give it a feel and let me know what you think.”

“Zwapp . . !” went a right cross to the temple of Mrs. Pride. Staggered by the blow to the head Mrs. Pride’s defenses where shot to hell, and with her vision still a bit hazy there was not a lot she could do. Sensing the victory close at hand Mrs. Longing went for the kill. She took hold of Mrs. Pride’s hand and placed it on her breast so she could examine them more closely. Which Mrs. Pride did, to soothe the savage beast least she be pummeled again. “My panties too . . . I always pick the wrong size, or material, or whatever. Here sit down on the toilet and let me show you.”

“Ka-Boing!!! *~*!!!” was all she remembered thinking when the knock out blow to the jaw finally came. With Mrs. Longing’s clean shaven pubis posed inches from her face the world to her was cut off, the voice above only an echo careening down the empty halls once occupied by Mrs. Pride. “I know it looks smooth and satiny, but feel it . . . it’s so hot to the touch. Can you soothe it for me please? Perhaps just a little moisture will do the trick . . . Oh! Yes, my little minx. Reach further, deeper . . . please, or Mommy will have to put you over her knee and give you the spanking you deserve . . . Oh! Ummm, that’s it . . . don’t stop . . . my pet, or . . . ummm . . . it’s over Greta’s knee … ahhh, or my kneeeee . . . ummm . . . right now, ahhh . . . to spaaan, ah . . . spaa-ank Greta’s lil’ pet . . .ummm . . . mummy’s lil’ girl . . . ummm . . . oooh! . . . you naugh-teeee lil’girl!”

-----

As the interminable week wore on Mrs. Longing took charge as the victor and Mrs. Pride was no longer anywhere to be seen. Rightly or wrongly she now paid homage, while over at the Homeopathic center Greta applied her new shaping gadgetry and exercises to pry and prod, mold and form Patrick into an even more remarkable looking creature each and every day. Just as “modern thought” would have it. Whereas in the Whipple household bathroom, the shrieks and the moans and the growling at Mrs. Longing’s stiletto heeled feet could be heard reverberating off the satellite dish in the Crawford’s backyard.
 
 
To Be Continued...
 

He knew the routine, having had it drilled into him over the years. Her doggedness was unrelenting and just the sound of her voice was enough for him to spring into the proper healthy posture. Standing up tall, he squared up his chin and drew his shoulders back. Then he thrust out his chest just as he had been taught to stand at attention at the academy. The subtle difference was the added rocking of his pelvis forward that caused his heels to rise up off the floor.

After a brief stop at Ms. Stanton’s for some pretty dress-up it was off to Las Oasis, “where the party never dies.” It wasn’t the first time Patrick had been there, though never had he driven down casino row. Even at this early hour the neon light façades and gigantic billboard signs glowed nearly as bright as the morning sun, overwhelming old and the young alike, and most of all young Patrick Whipple. Barbara could see it on his awestruck face as they drove past one club after another until coming to a stop in front of Rosie’s Gurl’s n’Curl’s Salon. Across the street was the flashing neon façade that fronted Puss n’ Poodle. One of the last of the old town lounges still standing as the giant casinos sprout up like wild flowers all around it.

Though a relatively small façade compared to the two behemoth casinos it was sandwiched between it lacked nothing in terms of glitz and glitter. Standing beneath a fluorescent, cotton candy pink canopy, stood a doorman dressed in a black tuxedo. About the canopy a 20’ tall neon sign that featured a trio of high kicking Can-Can girl’s, ruffling their skirts then bending over to show their knickers before looping round to begin the sequence again. “Come along Pretty Patty, you’ve an appointment and we wouldn’t want to keep Rosie waiting.”

If you were looking to see the same Patrick we all have come to know and love sashay his way out of that Mercedes then I’m afraid you’ve sadly underestimated the power of Homeopathy and the skills of Barbara Stanton — one clever Marketer. No matter what you might think of her, or her bastardization of an honorable profession, she can’t be accused of not affecting results.

Oh, I hear the “hissing” and the “boo’s.” You’re thinking I’ve giving credit where credit isn’t due, that Barbara Stanton was just a shyster, a charlatan or worse, a criminal. And of course, you’d be right! There’s no defense of the woman, but then there wasn’t a just defense for Rasputin either yet we still admired his evil genius. After all, she was just a free market opportunist, in hyper-drive perhaps, but just someone taking advantage of her position in a marketplace where scruples and a conscious will get you trampled by the herd in a minute. It takes genius, evil or otherwise, to stay ahead of that ruthless pack, and that one-of-a-kind quality product she escorted to the front door of Rosie’s salon was exactly the kind of innovative thinking that was going to keep her top of the class.

Well, you’d have to see him to understand why I am quick to give Barbara her due. She had done her job well. Perhaps not as she had promised him, but it wasn’t a meager boy suffering a “lingering malaise” she escorted inside Rosie’s sanctuary of girlie-dom. Wearing but a whiff of a skirt short enough to show a bit of white silk panty beneath, he looked very much like a saucily dressed teen aiming to tease the senses. You might even call him provocative when you take into account the clutch purse dangling from his wrist and the one pearl earring he now wore. Barbara’s trademark! The mark that focused all eyes on him was the oddity of his mismatched, slick, Vitalis laden hair.

Ah, but only if that was all there was to him. Because when you throw in gartered white lace stockings, 4” stiletto heels and a white silk blouse sheer enough to see the flower rosettes stitched into the fabric of his new bra, you have the picture of quite a healthy boy — or girl — or some androgynous creature in between. Or, if you prefer boy-girl, an apt name for a hybrid the likes of our dressed-to-kill blossom with jutting mounds and a flattop.

Suddenly the wiry, gooseneck boy didn’t look quite so awkward or misfit, especially those spidery limbs now attractively encased in that gartered lace hosiery. In truth, while he might not have looked like Sgt. Rock he was just as exceptional. “Special” if you like, just as Barbara had said, and given his sultry appeal, a head turning gift to mankind as he walked in the door. Not that he looked out of place. The room styled in a French boudoir motif with lush burgundy-red velour and brass throughout, the fluff and the pomp was the perfect setting to find an aspiring queen of the casino row. It was the perfect setting to find the elegant creature that greeted them at the front desk.

Tall and sumptuous, he wore a red sequin, off the shoulder pencil dress that hugged his hips like honey on a spoon. On top of his head he wore a beehive bouffant which he seemed prone to want to balance upright as if fearing it might fall off should he happen to look down. “Barbara, darling, how nice it is to see you," Howard broadcasted with a deep, hoarse voice, “. . . and oh, my! You lucky girl! Who is this lovely thing you’ve escorting you?”

“Patty this is Howard, Howard, this is Pretty Patty,” she smiled down at him warmly, as if to say. “Relax he’s not going to bite.”

“It’s Patty’s birthday, eighteen and all grown up. Is Rosie ready to begin his make-over?”

“Yes, of course. If you’ll escort this lovely thing I’ll get you situated and Madam Magnifique can begin to work her miracles.”

Ten minutes later he sat back in the styling chair with his eyes closes, body taut and seemingly detached from himself while a cadre of specialty artisans working on every aspect of him. Curious amorphic creatures in fanciful dress and richly painted faces they scurried about like enchanted fairies in Geppetto’s workshop to bring Barbara’s puppet to life. The manicurist, pedicurist and cosmetologist giggled and fastidiously pampered and toyed with his nails and his face with practiced hands, while Ms. Rose was busy coloring the landing strip on top of his head a golden blond.

Barbara sat close by to watch the product of her innovative thinking take form, and the vamp that emerged three hours later was truly worth the wait. He was quite the beautiful boy, but all Barbara could see were the dollar signs in her eyes and the “cha-ching” of cash registers sounding off in her head. With his flattop and high arching brows now dyed a golden blond and his cheeks dusted with a tint of sweet scarlet, he made up a very contrary picture. Add in the extended lashes, the soft-violet mascara and lips painted the same luscious cherry-red that matched his extended  ½ inch nails and you have everything Barbara had hoped for — and more! “My, my Rosie, that look is definitely him! Those glorious lashes, the brows, those lips, the hair . . . you’ve really outdone yourself this time. He’s a definitely a man killer!”

Her words proved to be as true as they were prophetic starting the moment they walked outside into the mid-day traffic. Eyes were riveted on him as he approached and swiveled round backward as he passed. Then when crossing the street, brakes screeched, horns tooted and cars collided in a cascading fall of rear-end collisions as they sauntered effortlessly across the unmarked street toward the entrance of the Puss n’ Poodle Club.

“Good afternoon Karl, busy?” She beamed her smile at the equally enthralled doorman. Dressed in a tuxedo with sunglasses, the dashing figure looked like a man who had seen it all, but a quick glance down at his protuberant trousers showed that he’d never seen anything quite like this.

Inside was a wonderland, a fairylike imaginary realm to excite the sense in a re-creation of the original Moulin Rouge. Centermost was the stage with its long vamp walk that also served as the counter of the bar. Fronting the stage and the long vamp walk was the lounge, its tables and chairs stretched across the parquet floor like plume feathers on a peacock. The crowd struggled to be heard over the pounding hard rock beat that reached dangerous decibels, while on stage the dancers were in the midst of the day’s first number before a hardy and somewhat inebriated crowd of admirers lined up at the bar.

Clearly this was the kind of setting that kindles imaginings of sin and seduction, and with the scantily clad entertainers and raucous, raunchy, out-of-control drunks, it hardly seemed appropriate place to find our hapless young hero. No doubt that’s how Patrick felt and if you looked closely you could see the tremor play across the bow of his candy-apple painted lips. Still, you must realize that eighteen was the age of consent in this fair state. The state certified brothels, the casinos, the strip clubs and yes, the wedding chapels were brim full of aspiring eighteen year olds looking to make there way in the world. All of them just as mortified as Patrick when they first walked in to a place like this; but then again, they were not seen as children anymore.

Barbara managed to squeeze her pet poppet and herself between some gentlemen sitting on bar stools nursing their cocktails and their torose slacks along the vamp walk. Darting between one outstretched claw or another, the dancing Puss’s and the dancing Poodle’s bumped and grind their way into the hearts of their admirers, then positioning themselves accordingly when proffered a tip. The Puss’s wore the familiar micro crop-top, skyscraper 6” heels and a g-string. The Poodles wore a leather collar; the heels and a g-string with an attached poodle’s tail that dangling behind.

Of course the spot she had selected to squeeze in had been anything but random. Patrick could see that the moment he looked up to see Nicky “the poodle” wagging his tail. Beside him a she-he, a Puss aptly named “Galore” shook and shimmed his scarcely concealed boobs in Nicky’s face. Nicky turned round and blew Patrick a kiss then thrust his hips out at the man sitting next to Barbara. Patrick was dumbfounded and petrified as Barbara leaned down to be heard over the riotous noise. Handing him a hundred dollar bill she nudged him to follow suit as the man stuffed a like amount into Nicky’s micro g-string. That’s micro, as in not even close to enough, and “Gee,” as in geepers! Where’s the rest of it?

Moving in to face Patrick, he again placed his hands behind to grab hold of his bottom cheeks and then to each of the thunderous cords: “. . . gimme, gimme, gimme . . .” he pumped his hips, and on “. . . the honky tonk blues” — O-o-o-ooph! He thrust out in such an upfront way as to leave no doubt exactly where he expected Patty to tuck in the hundred.
 
 
Chapter 7
 
 
Until recently this had been a day young Patrick Whipple had long been waiting for. Since a small boy he had always seen this as the day he would smartly walk into the recruiter’s office, proud of what he had become. Buffed and rugged as Sgt. Rock, he’d look eye to eye and shaking the hand of the man who’d have jumped through rings of fire to get him to sign on the dotted line. He had played upon the fabric of that dream until the threads wore bare, even now bringing it again to mind when he remembered it was his birthday. Something he had mercifully forgotten during the turbulent day. Only now did he shutter from the thought as they pulled into the driveway behind Edith’s rickety old Renault.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been expecting the party. He knew it was being planned. What he hadn’t expected was for Greta Buller to be there to complete the cast of characters. The prospects of having to face his aunt looking like Barbie incarnate was a gut retching thought in itself, but when you add in a dash of the bitter, caustic Greta and you’ve a toxic brew that had his stomach in knots and wanting to vomit. It was all a bit much to deal with, and expectedly, his wobbly knees and faltering spirit sounded his retreat into himself to protect what remained of his manhood.

The kitchen was decked out with streamers, balloons and party hats suited for a five year old. It seemed almost as bizarre as his Barbie impersonation, all going to prepare him for the worse. Outnumbered and definitely out gunned by Greta’s lethal hands, he lacked only the blindfold as he slumped and waited for his assassins to pull the trigger. Instead what he got was a warm embrace from his aunt. But what pleased him most was what put him at ease. Greta “The Bull” had an uncharacteristic smile on her face, and she uttered not a word.

Greta wasn’t prone to such niceties. Built like an M-1 tank with a fearsome scowl affixed to her turret she wasn’t one to do a lot of smiling, unless she was really pleased with herself - which was seldom. She always pushed the envelope and its method of delivery to the limit, which it in itself never seemed good enough. Even after pummeling him to complete, unconditional surrender.

There was something different about his aunt too. Something about her smile that would slowly fade from her lips whenever Greta spoke to her. Speaking to her in that cold, calculating way he thought had been reserved for him alone. In a voice that would cause her to bow her head and take on a flush, not unlike what would happen to him. He had noticed it while sitting in the living room too, when Greta spoke as if to order, not ask his aunt to prepare a spot of tea. Something she scurried off and did without question in the same manner he did when she told him to play some songs on his piano.

All the while he played, Greta sat in his aunt’s chair sipping her tea and chatting with Barbara about his musical talent. His aunt stood beside, eyes cast down and not saying a word. All out of character for her, but all that came to a stop when Nicky “the poodle” sauntered in.

Nicky, given the rare Saturday night off came dressed in a pair of white bell-bottom hip-huggers and a pink blouse. He had with him a single red rose to give to his “Peach’esth,” and to the delight of the ladies, a pair of hungry red lips that left a snail’s trail of lipstick smug that stretched from the tip of Patty’s nose to the base of his neck. A moment later, the birthday boy was blowing out the eighteen candles on the three layer cake and smothered beneath a mound of gifts.

As beautifully wrapped as they were he couldn’t bring himself to open them. With the pink ribbon and bows, and the fancy script “M’Lady” moniker printed on the boxes, it would have been tantamount to asking a man to pull the trigger himself! In his stead, Nicky took up the first box to open for him. Patrick slumped and fidgeted with his extended,  ½” pink nails while Nicky hurriedly sought to see what was inside. He hadn’t want to know, so his eyes just wandered about the room, his mind a blank until he fixed upon the framed picture hanging beside his piano.

It was his freshman year class picture. He always had mixed feeling about the picture of him standing front and center, the 12 members of his platoon standing in file alongside. All smartly dressed in their parade regalia, their bearing was proud and dignified, save for one. That would be him. As it certainly wasn’t the proudest or most dignified moment of his life he wondered why she left it to hang there after all these years. There were others after all, better ones, one for each of the following years of school. But for some reason she chose that one to hang even as offensive as it was. Then again, maybe that’s why she did it. To remind him, so he wouldn’t forget his place.

The picture was taken the first week of school about a month after he came to live with his aunt. At the time he was still pretty much a regular boy, you know, free to be himself. His aunt was still scratching her head wondering what to make of him and his little problem of wetting the bed. That was also the time of year when class pictures were taken. He was new to his aunt and new to the academy, but not new enough to have already become the most bullied kid in school.

That’s Martin Philips standing behind him. You remember him I’m sure, the boy in the coatroom next in line to fag him. He had it in for him pretty much since the git-go, and just moments before the shot was taken he had promised to pull down his pants right on 3-2-1-smile! Of course he believed him. He had already become the favorite target of his reticule and abuse, so why wouldn’t he? Fact is, he was scared to death it was going to happen just as he said, and when the photographer counted 3-2-1 he peed himself. Soaking the entire front of his pants down to his socks before the man could say “Smile!”

Of course his aunt had to come to school to take him home, although she wasn’t as angry as he would have expected. Still it seemed to have become a consummate moment for her and things were never the same afterward. From then on it was short pants instead of blue jeans and never again allowed to wander further away then the length of her apron string. Then along came Barbara Stanton, the frame to add to the picture. The enclosure that would forever bind and seal him in - subdued and caged like a rabbit awaiting the evening stew.

So there he was, left hanging on the wall seemingly forever. Front and center with tears in his eyes and sopping wet across the front of his pants and down the length of his leg. It was the most humiliating day of his life. A day that changed his life forever and still stained his memory as Nicky now held up a pair of expensive white lace stockings. “Oh look, new stockings and garters and a panty that match’esth too.”

He hadn’t even to look away from the picture. From his perspective, the picture could be seen in the background next to Nicky standing in front of him. The new pair of stockings he held out was juxtaposed, with the snapshot of life’s worse moment on one side and Nicky’s smiling face on the other. A four year stretch in time separated by millimeters underscored just how far he had come. And as Nicky continued to show the intimate feminine apparel that would change the look of his outside, he could see from the picture he was the same feeble, sickly boy suffering a lingering malaise on the inside.

The silk nightie Mrs. Bottomly had bought couldn’t have made it any clearer. Nor the pair of baby pink, point-toe patent pumps Ms. Stanton got for him. With their six inch stiletto heels and a jeweled star affixed on top, they were the very same heels he had seen worn by the “Puss” girls that afternoon. “Aren’t they beautiful Patty?” Barbara spat out. “Size eight and perfect for your new job at the “Puss and Poodle.”

“Oh, isn’t that wonderful, Patty,” Edith added, pointing out the obvious. “Barbara wants to hire you. Your own car, lots of new friends and a chance to become a man’s man . . . oh, I’m so proud of you.”

His aunt’s words were like a punch in the gut, and a sobering blow at that. Enough to draw him out of his stupor and merge again into the world around him. Looking around he saw Mrs. Bottomly sitting beside his aunt holding up the nightie between them. Nicky now sat on Greta’s lap playing some silly game with his pants gather around his knees and a pair of the new pink panties in his hand.

Barbara came around in front, lifted up his chin and stared into his eyes while she spoke in a tone as harsh as a shot of Kentucky rye. “Yes, you have all the makings of a great one. That is once you’re learned to handle the tricks of the trade. And with Nicky’s help you’re going to learn to perform those tricks ably for your admiring clientele, making you one of the most sought after commodities in the trade.”

“Oh my, look at the time,” interjected Mrs. Bottomly. “Time does fly when you’re having fun, but young boys do need their beauty rest and . . .”

“. . . and Nicky still has to give his gift.” Greta abruptly cut in, “By the look of things, I’d say the poor boy can hardly wait.”

“Well . . .” Barbara smiled and winked in an “I gotcha” sort of way. “How does this sound. Patty can put on his new nightie and Nicky, you lucky duck, you can run along to bed, get everything nice and warm and comfy for Patty.”

Nicky jumped off Greta’s lap and dashed to Patrick’s room flapping his arms and quacking with a lisp. As for poor Patrick . . . well, he retreated back into the solitude, his mind again blank, his gaze fixed upon that picture as the three self-serving, self-seeking parasitic harpies’ did their worst.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Self-serving and parasitic,” there, I said it! About time I did, right? All I can say is shame on me, and I apologize for not having done so before now. My silence was paramount to making myself an accomplice to the crime, or worse, excusing it in not coming to the defense of young Patrick. But that wasn’t my intent. As the story teller I simply wanted to air out the issues so you the reader could come to your own determination as to the right and the wrong, not give short-shrift to an injustice. That’s what it was after all, plain and simple. For their own gain these criminals, these self-serving parasites sucked the lifeblood of this hapless boy, his welfare nowhere to be seen.

Of course Patrick deserves our sympathy and our outrage, but you have to ask yourself why he didn’t fight back. I mean any boy worth his weight in the genetic code would have fought like hell to save himself from having to wear that nightie, those panties and those outrageous heels. So why didn’t he summon up the testosterone and fight back when outfitted like some ersatz bride on his wedding night? Why didn’t he go kicking and screaming when they led him down the hall and to the bedroom where Nicky waited at the door?

Well, you might ask the same of a boy who unfortunately finds himself a victim of bullying time and time again, for no reason other than his manner and the clothes he wears. He cries out, but nobody listens. He tries to fight back, but can not win. Soon his anger toward the bullies turns inward, blaming himself for his failings. Correcting his clothes and his mannerisms to please them he soon becomes a bully himself. A class “A” bully, to prove his worth and garnish respect, to measure up as somebody special in the eyes of those he is tied — the bullies - his support mechanism, the only ear who would listen and without them he is isolated and alone.

Oh I can hear the complaints already. You’re thinking, what kind of stretch is it to equate young Patrick’s needless suffering to the plight of an ignorant bully. Okay, I’ve heard your point. Maybe it was a stretch. After all, we all have heartache, hardships and some of us carry around enough guilt to topple a mountain. But few of us go through life suffering the blame for our weaknesses, our fears, our failed state the way Patrick did. For him it was a form of disparagement that bred self-loathing. And let me assure you, one and all, self-loathing is a powerful motivator that could convince him to do most anything.

Simply put, the only war that need be fought was within himself, not in fisticuffs with Barbara Stanton. He needed to fight his way from beneath the guilt and the blame before he could see himself in some way other than the way Barbara Stanton defined him. Obviously nothing has as yet awakened him to that fact. So you’d have to wonder what, if anything would get him to see through the bars of his self-imposed prison. Was he to become the prima donna drag queen of casino row just because he hated himself for his failed state and not measuring up?

Well, I’m writing this story and I can’t even say with certainty what the future has in store for our young, hapless hero. What I can say is that it’s never too late to find redemption.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Patty my darling,” Barbara whispered in his ear, “tonight is your night. Nicky has a special gift to give to a special boy. Call it a welcoming gift, a christening of our new Puss girl, Puss-E-Willow!”

With the three harpy’s lined up behind him, Barbara placed her hands on his shoulders and gently nudging him closer to Nicky standing at the bedroom door. Nicky stood smiling, at attention like a good soldier, and our hapless hero, lost in his reverie. His solitude spoke volumes as Barbara stepped back, Edith sighed, Jane smiled and Greta looked on with a wicked glint in her eyes. It was a bleak and sordid scene in which all hope finally seemed lost - though fortunately, not all.

When Nicky reached out to take hold of his person a thought occurred to him. He thought about what was at stake in that life or death struggle between Sgt. Rock and that crocodile. Even in the face of impossible odds he didn’t give up. With no less than his life in the balance he fought like the warrior he was, and would have done so to his dying breath. Or so it read in the caption beneath and no doubt absolutely true. Was his circumstance any less dire? Wasn’t it for him to fight to his dying breath, to fight for himself like the warrior he always wanted to be?

Perhaps he should have taken to heart what Sgt. Rock had told him. In his written response to his fan letter, he wrote; “It isn’t how big your muscles are that that make you a beautiful person. It’s standing up for what is right regardless of the outcome that makes a person worth remembering.”

That’s the way Sgt. Rock defined himself. It wasn’t his muscles, or his gun. It was having the grit to do the right thing regardless of the outcome that made him a superman. Odd that he had not been able to see it in that light before. It was one thing to want big muscles, but without the grit to do what’s right all the muscles in the world were meaningless. And grit was one thing young Patrick Whipple had a ton of — thank you, Barbara Stanton!!!

The revelation shot through him like a bolt of lightening that broke him out of his reverie and spurred him to action. Refusing to go quietly like a lamb to slaughter, he turned quickly and ran in the only direction he could, toward the bathroom. Before anyone could react he ran in, slammed the door closed and locked it all in one lighting quick move. Behind the security of the door he listened to the pounding and the angry, vile threats, demanding he come out this instant.

He didn’t come out of course, not even when Greta threatened to break down the door. Something she was quite prepared to do until Edith begged her not to do so. In time cooler heads prevailed and shortly after they drifted away. Then as the house grew quiet Patrick was left alone to think about what he had done. He could only hope that the point he had made would bring a halt to all this. At least he knew he did the right thing and was proud of himself as he kicked off those dreadful heels. But did he win the war or just a battle with worse yet to come?

Patrick didn’t know, but he sure wasn’t going to step out of the bathroom to find out. Not even after hearing Barbara slam the front door then drive off, followed shorted by Nicky and Jane. Instead, he put on his pink velour jump suit that was left hanging on the back of the door. Slipping it on over his nightie for warmth, he took out some towels from the cabinet and curled up on the floor to sleep.

The house was dead silent and the new morning sun had yet to cut through the cold when he woke up with a shiver. Patrick sat up and waited long enough until he was sure the coast was clear than cautiously opened the door. He peeked into his room and found his room dark and quiet. Then not finding his aunt in her room he went down the hall and into the family room where, stopped in his tracks, reality slammed into him with tidal wave force.

Greta sat at his aunt’s chair waiting on him. Beside the chair stood his aunt, unstirred, her head slumped down. “Good morning pretty boy. Come in and sit down . . . Come now, do as I say or I may renege on my promise not to bite.”

No match for Greta and not wanting a confrontation he sat across from her and waited quietly while his aunt went off to prepare breakfast. During the entire time she didn’t take her eyes off him, although she said nothing. Even in the kitchen while she heartily ate her ham and eggs and finished off his uneaten plate as well. Then when finished, she asked Edith for the keys to her car, telling her she was going home to change clothes and would be taking Patrick with her.

Patrick found it odd she would hand over the keys without question. She just lowered her eyes as Greta snatched the keys out of her hands. Then stood idly by as she grabbed him by the hand and hauled him away like so much chattel. Or, perhaps, like a lamb to slaughter. Edith didn’t know, but then she wasn’t asking either. It was as though she had given up, given in or joined the conspiracy, submissively surrendering in a manner no different than he had as Greta led him out the door.

Five minutes later it became obvious that she wasn’t headed home. She was taking the route to Ms. Stanton’s, pushing the rickety old Renault to its shaking, huffing, and puffing limit as it raced down the road leaving a cloud of dust. When they came to a stop in front of the clinic a vapor cloud of boiling steam was gushing out from under the hood as the engine continued to sputter and grind as if in its death throws. The dying car looked as Patrick felt as Greta hurried around to drag him from the car to meet his fate.

Like a fly ensnared in a Widow’s web, no amount of struggle could free him now. And waiting to devour their prey was Greta, Jane, Nicky and Barbara, conspirators to a one, at the ready to consume what little reminded of the boy in him. All in it together, an evil plot from the start. As for why, you needn’t ask. Because you already know there is only one thing that could compel someone to be so ruthless and cold-hearted without principle or conscious. Not love, not even hate is more compelling in this world of ours than greed for the almighty dollar.

Only profit could bring together under one roof such an odd assemblage of conspiratorial assassins, smiling and eagerly licking their chops over the prospects of capitalizing on his demise. Just as had been Nicky’s fate before him, and hanging on the walls of Barbara’s office the portraits of others before that. All no doubt to be found center stage at the Puss n’ Poodle, or perhaps in some dark corner entertaining one of Barbara’s well paying clients. Shameless in their surrender as they sit on some gentleman’s lap just to earn himself a car and some pretty clothes while the claque of jackals raked in their lucrative profit.

A dastardly deed to be sure, and a vice they were about to thrust upon him with no one to save him but himself. The very same skin and bone, sissified self now in utter fright as Barbara approached grinning like a cat prepared to swallow his mousy self whole. In her hand the largest syringe in the case. The end of the line model, the one she had promised would come at the end of his recovery. She was using it like a pink, rubber baton, grasping it one hand and slapping her other, open palm with a menace. “Well . . . my pretty little puss, after Nicky has finished feeding the guppy, you can ask me politely to finish the job . . .” she paused, then held up the monstrous nozzle, “. . . and I’ll see what I can do.”

Patrick was beyond grief. Beyond response of any kind, save the tears that streamed down his terror stricken face. Quickly they striped him of his jumpsuit but chose to leave on the nightie, garter belt and stockings he wore beneath. Then as Greta held his hands in her iron tight grip, Barbara prettified his tear stained face while Jane retrieved yet another pair of high-heeled pumps from the closet. “Okay Greta, he’s pretty as a picture. Come, Patty, your belated birthday gift awaits you in the bathroom.”

Nicky was already there, quite eager and quite ready. Greta sat down on the rim of the bathtub filled with perfumed bubbles then pulled Patrick’s shoulders down until his head came to rest on her lap. With his high heeled rear jetting up obscenely behind and his head pinned down like a butterfly to a mat, Barbara took up beside him. Everyone and everything at the ready she motioned to Nicky to step up behind our hapless hero. Which he hurriedly did wearing a most wicked grin as his stepmother Jane shouted her smutty encouragement from the doorway. Only then did Barbara Stanton lean in to whisper in his ear, “No more hiding in the cloak room closet for you. It’s time the little fairy queen step out and find his rightful place in the world.”

Patrick sobbed a mournful cry as he felt Nicky’s thumbs spread his cheeks. But when he felt the heat of his advance something inside him broke. His aunt might have given up, given in or joined the conspiracy, but he had not. His heart was broke, but as yet, not his will. So he dug down deep for some of that hard earned grit and, “S-n-a-p!” . . . went his self-loathing. “Cr-r-a-a-ck!” . . . went his hobbled spirit.
“Scr-r-e-e-ch” went the sound of bending bars, the bars that held him imprisoned!

I don’t know. Call it a reflexive survival thing of some sort. Kind of like what one would do if a bomb when off in the room you were in. The concussion and the blast blow everything to smithereens, but somehow you find yourself alive amidst the rubble. Dazed and confused, you’re not even thinking, probably not even conscious. You’re just in shock. Ears ringing, the dimmest of light illuminates your awareness, and you reach out to see what remains of you. And that’s what he did.

He reached out with his fist clenched. With a force coming from a source he had never felt before, he broke free of her grasp and swung. It was as if in slow motion and the involuntary reflex seemed to click by frame by frame as the fist landed square on Greta’s jaw . . . “Ka-Pow!” The follow through pushed the twisted, shattered jaw off its moorings and sent her flying back into the tub of water with a splash.

The momentum carried him whirling in a smooth pivot around on the point of his 6” stiletto heel, the sweep of his right leg aimed waist high toward Barbara’s midsection. The high heeled kick that followed plunged into her gut . . . “Thwack” . . . doubling her over then flying back, her head slamming against the wall. “Splat!” With Greta moaning and stewing in the hot water, and Barbara sitting on the floor still trying to figure out what day of the week it was, young Patrick Whipple rushed past the squealing Nicky, pushed aside the cursing Jane and ran out of the bathroom — free of his prison! Yahoooooo!

Spotting his jump suit pants he grabbed them on the way out the front door, slowing down only for a moment to step into the velour pants with a hop, skip and jump as he continued to run down the sidewalk. His pants up, he turned on the after-jets and ran, his pink stiletto heels clutched in his hand. He didn’t know where he was going, or wait to see if anyone followed. He just ran, his face laden with tears, all logic, all reason lost to him. Rounding a corner, he ran down a street before rounding another, running on and rounding corners until out of breath. Forced to stop running as much from bewilderment as exhaustion, he sat on a curb and sobbed uncontrollably.

He had no idea how long he had been running, where he was or what he was going to do. All he knew was he couldn’t go back to face all that again. He was lost to himself, so deep in despair that he hadn’t noticed a car pull up.

“Hell-l-l-o-o-o-there,” rang out a girl’s singsong voice, followed by a gleeful, throaty cackle that brought him back in touch with the world around him.

Looking up he saw what looked like a mobile billboard. Well, not exactly a billboard. More like a mosaic of chimerical, rainbow-colored flowers with pedals that looked like liquid teardrop that stretched out to transform themselves into the most exotic imagery. The whole of it conforming to the shape of the Volkswagen bus, and hanging out the passenger window a girl, wearing a flower in her fiery red hair, small purple sunglasses and smile as big as a quarter moon. “Need a ride?”

The side door slid open and a young barefoot man wearing red silk balloon pants, a tall, Persian style rabbit fur hat and Indian beads stepped out. “Far-out man, like it looks as if could use a friend!” Though it didn’t seem possible, the young man with the tall hat beamed a big, toothy smile even bigger than the girl’s as he reached out to offer him a hand.

Patrick could scarcely believe any of this. He had never seen anything like this before. Not the car not the people, not even his own eyes. It was as if he had either gone mad or mistakenly fallen into some otherworldly realm where everything was curiously unreal. His first impulse was to believe the whole thing some sort of joke and the pranksters looking for yet another way to humiliate him. He felt certain none of this could possibly be real. All the same, when he looked again at the girl’s big, earthy smile, then again into the eyes of the strange young man, he saw something that said it was quite real indeed. “Why don’t yah come along, we’re going to a parade.”

“A parade . . .” braved Patrick as he blotting the moisture off his long, fluttering lashes, “where?”

“San Francisco,” the girl again cackled in a gravelly, good-natured way. “It’s a people’s parade man, and the whole world is there waiting for us.”

“I can’t . . . ahm-aaah, ahmmm, not dressed . . .”

“Everything’s cool man, like it’s come as you are. Everybody is welcome. You can be whatever you want, or just be,” he happily said as his bare feet danced to the sound of his own words. “Come on man, come join the parade!”

These people were different, that he knew with certainty. Crazy, perhaps, but then he looked down upon himself wondering what he must look like to them. With his face painted like a Las Oasis showgirl and wearing a nightie, he knew he looked no less the Madhatter - A boy with perky tits and a flattop running to or from something in a world turned upside down on its head. In every sense, they were just like him, only happy - And if this was crazy, then this is where he belonged. Knowing he couldn’t go back there was only one way to go - forward, to join a parade!

So he planted a smile on his showgirl painted face and accepted the young man’s hand. Stepping through the sliding side door Patrick sat in the back beside another young man playing a guitar. He wore tattered blue jeans, a Mexican serape and like the driver, a head of electrified hair and big bushy mustache. “I’m Nick,” the young man said as he continued to strum the cords.

The young man in the rabbit fur hat stepped in, sliding the door closed behind. Then with a smile as bright as the rainbow of colors inside the mini-bus the boy sat down beside him, leaving Patrick sandwiched between an excess of hair. “I’m David,” he beamed. “That’s Nicky pick’in the guitar. That bushy mongrel upfront is Captain James, and the beautiful Texas rose is Janis.”

Patrick lit up when he heard the word “captain.” Looking forward, he spotted the army fatigue jacket he was wearing with sergeant stripes on the sleeve. Then as if the big bushy outcrop of hair was somehow masked from his sight, blindly blurted out, “Are you a captain . . . an army captain?”

Captain James had just taken a bite of an apple and, turning round, reached back to hand Patrick the half-eaten apple before answering. “Ah, yah, like in the peoples army, and I play a mean bass too.”

Nick ran his fingers through a frenzied sequence of loud, mismatched cords on his unplugged electric guitar, and above the ruckus, Janis’s coarse, throaty cackle sang out in wondrous laughter. A moment later Captain James put the bus into gear and they started out. As the guitar played and the little engines hummed, Janis pulled a flower from her hair to hand to him. “If you’re going to San Francisco, my man, yah gotta wear a flower in your hair . . .”

Then as the bus drove off, Nick played his guitar, Dave beat a rhythm on his knees with his hands and Janis sang. Patrick looked out the window as they headed back the way from which he came. Rounding one corner than another until they came to an intersection where he saw Barbara’s Mercedes across the way waiting for the light to turn. He saw Greta, Jane and Nicky sitting alongside looking up one street and down another, obviously looking for him.

Then when the light turned green and the Mercedes sped past, he followed it as it faded down the way then turned round to look again at his travel companions, soldiers in a people’s army. Longhaired, flower wearing hero’s to a one, sincere and genuine and caring enough to want to share his company. They went about their way without apology, guilt or blame, placing no demands on him or even each other. They just gave expecting nothing in return. There was no hate, just love; no “I” or “me,” just “we” and “us” together, sharing an apple and a song he didn’t even know the words to, but it didn’t matter. He was free to sing, to be himself and nobody ridiculed, cajoled or laughed at him. Nick just laughed with him, Dave just pat him on the back and Janis just sang, “. . . freedoms just another word for nothing left to lose . . .”

What a birthday present! Eighteen, free and Patrick Whipple finally came to be.
 
 

Murphy's Law Revised Part 1: Scenes I-IV By Josie “Murphy understood the law and knew justice. He also knew that the two were often not the same. To catch the bad guy and win a confession you had to be willing to step outside the box and take chances. That’s what made him a great cop. But that didn’t give him the right to take the law in his own hands. All he had to do was have a boy examined to confirm his true gender and now his mistake was going to cost him. Maybe his job? Maybe a demotion? But then nothing in this case was turning out like it should. He should have seen this coming. He should have known that you can test the odds and you can test your resolve, but never pit your luck against Murphy’s Law. Because sure as the devil will get his due, anything that can go wrong, will go wrong!”

Originally written in 2007, Revised and Reposted 2009.
 
All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 

 
 
October 12th, 1961 . . .
 
 
It was late, already past dusk when Jack Murphy spotted him, but it was Spike who went in after him. Running up the steps he pushed open the door unsure of that lie in wait or whether he needed a gun. Spike didn’t carry one. Nor did he need one. He had only his hands and a bite of a rabid dog on the attack as he entered the dark foyer.

Quickly he surveyed the place for signs of lurking danger. Then making his way to the base of the stairs he grabbed hold of the banister to accelerate his climb up the long flight. Three steps at a time, using speed as an ally as he advanced his attack up the stairs and down the darken hall until he spotted a door left half open.

Cautiously he pushed the door open then eyed the plush velvet curtains knowing that’s how things work on Slade Street. He found the curtains drawn and the room illuminated by only the thinnest veil of filtered light. Still it was enough for him to spot a shadowy figure in white suit and tie sitting in a rocking chair just to the right and behind the bed. In front of the bed stood the immediate threat, the man he had come for. The assailant, the man with his trousers gathered around his ankles who, in his single-mindedness, didn’t even know he was there.

Lying on the bed was his victim. Not struggling or crying or thrashing about to ward off her attacker as you might suppose. Nor did he understand why, but it made little difference. Spike was going to see to it that the low-life got his just due. Pronto!

It had taken but an instant for the door to slide open and for the man to be spotted. It only took a blink of an eye longer for Spike to jump him from behind, lock him in a choke hold and haul him back out the door. No screams of despair, no cries of “thank you.” Just the sound of Salazar gagging and Spike’s cold words, “Should’ah listened, Sally, and kept your nose clean.”

Molly made her way past the patrol car and through the gathering crowd of onlookers toward Jack Murphy. Beside him stood Salazar, his pants still not fully secured draped halfway down his hips. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and in his back pocket a pink envelope garnished with hearts and flowers. Jack was just handing him over to the two waiting patrolmen when Molly came up alongside and wrapped her arm around his waist. He looked down at her and smiled.

He had got his collar, albeit one he hadn’t expected. Still, in the long view of things it had turned out to be a pretty good day after all. Jack had got his man, and Spike had earned the humility that comes with wearing the badge. “Well ol’girl,” Jack beamed, “How about that drink.”
 
 
SCENE I: A year before . . .
September 4, 1960
 
 
Rose heard the familiar clunk of her heels rushing up the steps. Then like a thug, Molly pushed open the screen door and let it slam with a bang.

“Not a lot of finesse in that girl,” Rose thought. “She’s about as refined as raw sugar.” Then again, what more could she expect of her. She’s just a country girl who still hasn’t grasp the do’s and don’t of life in the big city.

“Mornin’ Rosie,” Molly churned out while vigorously working on her wad of chewing gum. “What’cha cookin’?”

Rose looked up from the pan of frying bacon, gave a cursory look then found herself wishing she hadn’t. “What cheek,” she thought, entirely annoyed by what she saw. “It was always the same with this girl. Nothing ever changes.”

“That skirt is unfitting,” Rose grumbled.

“Hmmm, what’s that Rosie?” Molly popped a bubble and flashed a grin.

“Your skirt! Where’s your common sense? This is a reputable Brooklyn home you’re working for, not some Shaddock Street bar. Why Katherine allows it is beyond me.”

Molly sucked in her gum, put her hands on her hips then looked down to see what the fuss was about. Her work clothes appeared in order. Linen blouse, vest, as did her black wool skirt, albeit hemmed several inches higher than Rose might like to see. The added height of the pumps might have exaggerated the look, but as she saw it, nothing to throw a hissy-fit over.

“Don’t yah like it, Rosie?” Molly asked, unsure whether it was just the gripe of an old woman, or exposing the stocking tops was really showing a bit too much leg. She was of the opinion it looked rather cute. This was Friday after all, and she was anticipating a fun evening, perhaps sooner if she was lucky. An evening shared with friends down at the Niles Street Bar where she had in mind serving up just the right touch of flavors atop a very voluptuous cone.

Her point made Rosie said nothing more, choosing instead to again address the less volatile commodity, her pan of sizzling bacon. A wise woman she counted her words carefully, especially around Molly. A girl so single-minded nothing short of a revelation could divert her laser-like focus on her gum and herself.

“Aaah, there ain’t nothin’ wrong,” Molly finally decided with an attitude unfit for a girl 35 years her younger. “It ain’t the old times no more, Rosie!”

Then as if looking to rattle the old cook further she reconfigured herself into her version of the latest teen heartthrob, snapping her fingers and shuffling her feet to the sugary tune that poured from her lips. “Oh, the shark has, pretty teeth, dear, and it shows them, pearly white . . .”

“Sharks teeth, indeed,” Rose cut in, “you’ll be lucky if Ma’am doesn’t have me serve up a bit of that sass for dinner.”

“Nah, uh-uh, Mrs. K loves me ta’bits,” Molly said as if fact, fait accompli. She came up behind where Rose stood at the stove, wrapped her arms about her waist and gave her a hug. Then she reached down to scoop up a strip of bacon from the towel and began to gingerly nibble around the edges so as not to soil the lush red paint on her lips.

A moment later the screen door again opened and Gerald entered the scene.

“B’sides, she thinks it’s cute. Told me so herself,” Molly followed as she flung herself in the direction of her son. “Mornin’, Pea’ches.”

Rose turned to watch Molly smoother the boy with her affections and again, shook her head in annoyance. “The boy needs a haircut,” Rose spoke her mind. “Something more fitting a seventeen year old, like a crew cut.” She curtly followed, not at all comfortable with that “girlie mop-top” of his.

“Ah, Rosie, it’s fittin’” Molly pleaded her case. “Anyways, see here . . .” she combed her fingers through its length, “it ain’t got no curl, or nothin’.”

Rose looked again at her bacon remembering Katherine didn’t like hers darkened to a crisp. Besides, she’d win no points with Molly. They saw eye-to-eye on very little. Although there was one thing they both could agree. Long hair or not, her son definitely shared her award winning looks.

In fact he had the whole package, from the deep set cheeks and up tilt of the nose, to the same arresting Irish green eyes. They even dressed alike. His trousers and her skirt made of the same black wool. His shirt made of the same crisp white linen. Even their vests matched. Black silk, sleeveless and cropped at the midriff, they were identical down to the floral-stitch piping. The only difference — one had buttons and one was without.

“Buttons is for girls,” or so Molly seemed to think.

“Country girl,” Rose sighed, wondering why she should expect any more of her. She was lost in that thought when a splattering of hot grease stung the back of her hand triggering an unexpected outburst of exasperation. Something Rose could no longer contain. “If you ask me, it looks down right silly! It’s near long as yours.”

“Gosh, who put a burr in Rosie’s saddle this mornin’? He looks fittin’,” Molly scoffed. “‘Sides Mrs. K don’t mind. Not one bit. She done said so herself, y’know.”

“Rubbish! It’s too long for a boy. The way I see it, he might as well be wearing that bohemian skirt of yours for all the difference it would make.”

“Ya think so, Rosie?” Molly asked, while looking as if studying the boy. “Nay, uh-uh, his butts too skinny,” she giggled, and again, began snapping her fingers and shuffling her feet. Only this time with her sights set on her son. “Come on, skinny butt, let’s have us some fun.”

Rose rolled up her eyes, heaved a sigh and again returned to her bacon, now a golden brown. “You know, if I were you I’d be getting that breakfast cart set before Mrs. Kline comes in. Otherwise you might find yourself dancing your way out the door, looking for a new job.”

“That’s all you be thinkin’ bout, Rosie, work! A girl needs to be stretchin’ her wings now an’ a’gin. Ain’t that right, Sugarplum?” Molly sulked, looking for agreement from her son.

“Is that why you’re all dolled up this morning? Fixing to go out and stretch your wings some, Molly?”

“Ah, Rosie! “It ain’t nothin’ special,” Molly feigned a pout then pursed her lips to highlight her richly painted face.

Molly came about to start setting the service cart. “But . . . I s’pose it’d be right with me if Mrs. K were willin’ to gimme some time off, being its Friday in all. I’m thinkin’ bout askin’. What’cha think?”

Rose turned to hand Molly the servings of bacon and eggs to set upon the cart. The hard work and her 68 years had not beaten her down as yet. Her shoulders were still broad and she still could see eye to eye with her. Definitely not the sort Molly would want to see angrily swinging a rolling pin in her direction. Nor was Rose one to let her forget that fact whenever the need arose to stand toe to toe. “What nerve. You haven’t put in a full day of work in a month of Sundays and you want off today too?”

“What’s the bother, Rosie? Mrs. K don’t mind, none at all. I wouldn’t be askin’ if she weren’t fixin’ to give it. ‘Sides, Gerald’s here if she be needin’ the help.”

“Yes, I can see how he’s learned to fill in for you quite well, with all the dusting and cleaning and all. Got him trained like a pretty little maid and he don’t seem to mind, none at all.”

“That’s his job, Rosie. Gets paid same as me, an’ he likes it. Don’t yah, Pea’ches?”

“Yes’m,” Gerald muttered and Molly punctuated with an ‘I told you so grin.’

“See, Rosie! My Pea’ches is old enough to be takin’ care of himself. He don’t need no babyin’ . . . ummmm, lessen of course, Mrs. K be wantin’ to baby him some. Can’t see there be harm in that. Can you?”

Rose threw up her hands. Doing his mother’s work wasn’t the boy’s job. He was paid to run Katherine’s errands, but there was no point in reminding Molly of something she already knew. Besides, what more could she expect of her. At 32, she was only just a child herself. A beautiful girl with a body fit to be memorialized on the fuselage of a B-17, but that was it. She was a shallow as a birdbath with an inordinate taste for men and the fast life, her seventeen year old son lost in the mix.

Resigned to the inevitable Rose turned to finish setting the cart herself. While Molly continued to work on her gum and fuss with her nails as if unaware it was her job, not Rose’s to do. The pot of tea finished off the setting and then a long stem carnation was placed in a bud vase and set on the tray.

A moment later, Katherine Kline stepped through the door and entered our contentious scene.

“Mornin’ Ma’am,” Rose and Molly chimed out in unison.

“Good morning. Is breakfast prepared?”

“Yes ma’am,” Rose quickly replied with a curtsy. Katherine acknowledged the gesture then shifted her focus toward Molly, still working her gum with a vengeance. Her eyes ringed black kohl and violet, her lips a blood red.

To Katherine, she was too young and too consumed by her own personal psychology to have much of herself to give, neither as a mother nor a good employee. Nor caring, something that could easily be seen in her faint smile and distant look. As if wishing she were someplace else. Completely unaware Katherine stood waiting for her to follow Rose’s example.

“A fitting response,” Katherine though, simmering on low heat. “The girl thinks she’s bomb proof, only she’s not. With her finger already poised on the self-destruct button, she’ll soon fall victim to her own intemperance without help from me.”

So she gave up the wait and politely returned an ingratiating smile. Then taking hold of Gerald’s hand she led him back out through the dinning room door. Any more would have only put Molly on notice, perhaps tip her hand and delayed the inevitable.
 
 
Scene II: Katherine Kline
 
 
The dinning room was a grand room, and in terms of opulence, mirrored the rest of Katherine’s Brooklyn, Glen Park home. Sweeping and stately, it smelt of old wood and wax. With a high ceiling covered with an ornate façade of beveled tin centered by a brilliant chandelier. Velvet curtains framed the windows and original pieces of art hung on the walls.

It was also a brittle place with a certain sterile quality to the stilted furnishing and the formality of the setting. Especially the floor that seemed so brittle one hard step would cause the fine China and the curios to vibrate with a clink and a clatter. Rosewood floors polished with a luster of mirrored glass and kept that way without benefit of rugs so you could see your silhouette as you walked in the room.

The room was quite beautiful as was her home, but hardly warm and inviting, at least from Gerald’s point of view. The room, like Katherine, had a way of making him feel muted and dependent. As if needing to be told what to do and how it should be done, or risk having something or someone come unglued. Obviously he would have preferred to eat in the kitchen alongside Rose and his mom, but he was the houseboy and no matter how tortuous the slog his job was beside Katherine. To run her errands, do her fetching and yes, to sit and share a meal.

A few moments later Molly followed carefully rolling out the breakfast cart then set the place serving for two. Her job done, she stood at her position behind Katherine looking very much the quintessential mother and conscientious employee, dressed in those nose-bleed heels and a skirt that exposed a bit too much leg. Her lips blood-red, her eyes ringed black kohl and violet, squeezed into a vest on the verge of giving way to her preponderate bust.

The poor girl looked as if she hasn’t a clue as Katherine served-up the eggs and bacon for both Gerald and herself and then sat down beside him, close-in and personal, as if to take possession of her own son, not Molly’s. “There now, Gerald. You may begin, but remember to mind your manners.”

Of course none of this was new to Molly. Gerald had his job, she had hers. Granted, Katherine’s conduct might have raised a few brows if seen from the outside, but for those within the household it was just another breakfast. No different than what otherwise passed for normal in the daily affairs of those who worked in this rather elegant Brooklyn home.

There’s Rose navigating her way through the humdrum with her short gray hair tightly permed, her work boots, bifocals and the years of wear etched on her face. Already years beyond retirement nothing comes as easily to her as it once did. Yet even withered and worn by time, in spirit she’s still as robust and vibrant as a rear vintage port.

Beside her stands Molly, with her pin-up girl figure and a face that could have rendered Caesar to his knees. Her smile is as sumptuous as candy, and inevitable filled with all the ingredients your mother always warned you about. She’s as unpredictable as she is irrepressible. A “Mommy Dearest” in very high heels with a Colgate smile and a cabbage patch brain.

Then there’s Katherine, as straight laced and stilted as that dinning room of old wood and wax. She appears resolute and thorough, but beneath that thick upper crust there’s another Katherine. One a bit more distant from the role she plays as lady of the house. Thankfully, only by a degree or two, but it’s enough to open a window of speculation about her person and her character. Let’s have a look.

In her mid 50’s, Katherine’s a widower and considered exorbitantly wealthy by any standards. She also owns the largest of the homes on a very prestigious street on which to live. She could even boast a backyard, a rather large one — quite the novelty in a city like Brooklyn. With a flower garden and richly foliaged trees that provided a privacy to envy.

You would think with that kind of stature she’d be quite the socialite. She’s still attractive, taller than most with a handsome figure. Appearance-wise, she certainly looked as though she would have fit right in the Sunday social circuit. That is, if not for the fact that she was also an intensely private and austere woman who carried herself as though suffering from some lingering despair. Wound up in her own personal psychology she had little to offer in the way of a public face. Now add to the mix the recent death of her husband and you’ve the perfect storm for a recluse. A woman with everything locked away, only her eccentricities left out for show.

It’s quite a cast composing quite a scene. With everyone and everything fixed in place following the form Katherine expected. Excluding Gerald’s occasional shuffling in his seat and Katherine’s curt warning, “Please don’t fidget, young man,” it was also a very quiet affair. At least up to the moment Katherine turned to give Molly her instructions for the day. “Molly, after you’ve set my room, you’ll manage the linens, freshen the flowers and dust everything quite thoroughly.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Molly replied, though halfhearted to a degree. Obviously she had something in mind and it wasn’t work. Katherine could hear it in her voice and see it in the look that had followed her out from the kitchen and betrayed her even more so now.

“Have I mentioned how lovely you look this morning, Molly?” Katherine prompted, wanting to hear more about what was on her mind.

“No, but I do thank’ya ma’am. I be wantin’ t’please, it’s just that . . .”

“It’s just that what, Molly?”

“It’s just that I was wonderin’ since this being Friday an’ all . . .”

“Ah, so you’ve dressed up with the hope of going out?”

“Yes ma’am, I hate to be askin’, but I thought if you was of a mind I might be leavin’ a wee bit early?”

“Of course, it’s no problem whatsoever,” Katherine followed with some restraint. Something she had been careful to show throughout the exchange. “You can have the whole day off if you like. All you had to do was ask.”

“Gerald, would you kindly go up to my room and fetch my purse. You’ll find it atop the bureau.”

“You’ve been working quite hard of late,” she added with a smile, albeit one that was deliberate and guarded, to mask the anger that lay beneath. “I see no reason why a young and attractive girl shouldn’t have ample time to be out and about.”

“Why, thank you ma’am.”

“I always try to reward good work, Molly. You know that,” she offered, again with that same immutable smile. “You just run off, have a good time and I’ll see you promptly at 8 for Monday morning breakfast.”

“Monday mornin’!” Molly swooned as if feeling the rapture. “Why Mrs. K, that’s down right generous!” She radiated a smile that could have melted the armor on a Sherman tank.

“Nonsense, you’re quite deserving, Molly,” Katherine somehow managed to get out without biting her tongue.

Gerald returned with Katherine’s purse and without hesitation she retrieved a fold of bills clipped together as if prearranged. Then leaning in, she pressed the fold into Molly’s palm and with a wink-and-a-nod whispered in her ear. “Just don’t bring your boyfriend back here. You know I do not allow that sort of thing under my roof. Understood?

“You can be a’countin’ on it, ma’am.” She stuffed the fold of bills down the canyon dividing those twin 36 double D’s, beamed a thousand watt smile and that was that. A moment later she made a dash for the door, leaving in her wake her melancholy son and an employer who was just as happy to see her go as she would have been happy to see her dead!

Katherine made her way to the window and peered out waiting for Molly to make her way through the gate and into the street to hail a cab. A few moments later Rose followed on her way home. She lived in a tenement only a short walk way, and given her age and the nature of her work she would not be returning until late afternoon to prepare the supper.

With the two ladies now gone she turned to Gerald and lifted his sullen face with the tip of her long red nail. “So, Gerald, with your mother now gone for the day I suppose you’ll be doing her work?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Of course, you do know the rules of the house,” Katherine followed as if from a script. One she had read to the boy many times before. “They hold for your mother as they do for you or poor Rose. Though it’s hardly her fault she’s too old to stand on her feet all day long. The poor woman has to strap herself into those boots in the morning and doesn’t dare remove them for fear of the swelling, and she’s no use to me with lame hoofed feet.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Fine, then after lunch I will expect you to fetch your mother’s apron and duster. Now come along.”

Katherine plucked the carnation from the vase, took up his hand and negotiated the way toward the base of the stairs. They made their way up the long flight and down the long upstairs hallway toward the room where Katherine spent her mornings. Outside the door there was a single straight back chair. She handed him the carnation and asked him to sit and to knock if she were needed. Then taking her keys she unlocked the door and entered, again locking the door behind.
 
 
Scene III: The Cab Ride
 
 
“Hot dog, if it ain’t my ol’friend, Molly! Fancy us meeting up,” beamed the cabbie flashing his gold capped tooth. He was turned around facing the rear seat watching Molly slip into his cab. The sight of her preponderant bosom and shapely legs was something he wouldn’t have missed for the world. They didn’t call her ‘Good-Time Molly’ for nothing.

“Hey, Romano, seems you be campin’ outside my door,” Molly laughed and Romano grinned in that detached sort of way he always did. Looking like some dreamy eyed Romeo imagining himself playing a little back seat bingo with the girl. Molly rather fancied the look. With a pack of camels rolled up in the sleeve and the duck-tail at the end of his slick back pompadour, he looked like a James Dean wan-a-be dressed in those infamous blue Jeans and undershirt a size to small.

“Well I think camping outside your door might be a better way to make a living with all the gallivanting you be doing. Where you headed, Tommy’s or the Niles St. Bar?”

“Niles Street. Got me a date with Mr. Daniels,” Molly managed to get out with a laugh before Romano stepped on the gas.

“Don’t forget Nick. . .” Romano cut in as he weaved in and out of traffic, “. . . and Charlie and Frank and that Fabian look-a-like fella . . . what’s his name?”

“Milton,” Molly laughed. “He’s chrome-plated, for sure. Works at the Mo’bile station on 23rd, but since he don’t get off till late I reckon its first come first serve.”

“How do you do it, Molly? Most folks have to work for a living, but you . . . you’re out gallivatin’ without a care in the world. You sure got some sugar, girl! Even better, you’ve got’em gobbling it up right out of your pretty little hand. Especially that boss of yours.”

“Naw, it ain’t like that, Romano,” she said while holding her hand up to examine her nails. “She’s a loony.”

“Who’s loony?”

“My boss, y’know, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, th-th-th-th-that’s all folks, loony. Crazy like . . . always be wantin’ everthin’ just so-so. Ain’t never happy bout nothin’ an’ she’s got this room she be hidin’ in for hours. Ain’t got a friend in this world, no company ever, or lookin’ to invite none either . . . that kind of crazy.

“Sounds like an eccentric old biddy.”

“Yeah,” Molly craned up her neck and pouted her lips. “Since her ol’hubby done died. Now she’s just an ol’black wid’ah all alone in her web. A rich one too!”

“You don’t say. Well, I kind’a figured with the name Melvin Kline the third still tacked to the front gate. The more of them numbers you got after your name the more it smells like old money to me.”

“Yeseree-bob, an’ she be keepin’ oodles of money in that office of hers too.” Molly added, still working on that gum. “Seen it myself and it ain’t even locked up or nothin’!”

“Is that so,” Romano peered back at her through the rear view mirror showing an active interest in what she had just said. Romano wasn’t one for paying much attention to the traffic laws as he zoomed in and out, but he was plenty attentive when it came to discussing opportunities like that.

“You know, a lady all alone like that should be more careful. Not every fella has got them same scruples as me. Know what I mean?”

“Ah-hu, would be easy as pie too,” Molly churned out a small pink bubble. “I reckon he could plonk her on the head while he’s at it. Wouldn’t bother me none,” she summed up her point with a pop of her gum.

“Down girl!” snapped Romano, but he wasn’t so sure speaking up was the smartest thing to do. You could never tell with Molly. Her mood and her opinions were subject to change more or less like the wind, making her a very hard read. “It ain’t right to be wishing that on nobody. Besides, I’ve picked her up plenty of time and she don’t seem so loony to me. Plenty nice and always got a big tip too.”

“Well, she is, I ain’t lyin’!” Molly replied, her childish pout turning from playful to disgruntled.

Romano would have liked to pry her for more details on the setup. The thought of all that unguarded money just sitting around was an intriguing proposition. On the other hand he was also a smart man and he knew the least said the better. In matters like these, it’s one thing to hear the deal and quite another to show you’ve an interest. So he changed the subject.

“Well maybe she just likes my looks. What’cha think, Molly?” Romano looked back over his shoulder, pointed down toward his crotch and beamed his gold plated smile. “Think she might have a hankering for some of this fine Brooklyn Kielbasa?”

“Hey, be watchin’ where you’re going!” Molly shouted out the alarm.”

“Oh, yeah, well,” Romano turned back around just in time to avoid an imminent collision with a delivery van. “Sorry ‘bout that. So, what yeah think? Think she be wantin’ to sample some of this here fine Polish cuisine?”

“Nah, uh-uh, not that wrinkly ol’prune.”

“Well I guess being all alone can do things to yah. You know, having no one but yourself in that big ol’house can play tricks on the mind. Still she’s gotta be a generous ol’biddy to open the cage door to let the bird fly free.”

“Nope, ain’t like that either,” she followed, now with a compact in hand searching for traces of gum stuck to her lips. “She’s lucky to be havin’ me and she be knowin’ it. I work when I be wantin’, if I be wantin’, an’ the money is mine. My mama done give it to me when she died.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that, Molly,” Romano replied, then redacted himself fearing his expression of sympathy might be misconstrued, “. . . I mean, sorry about your mom, not the money.”

A moment later he pulled his Checkered Cab up to the curb that fronted a dingy brown building. In front, a small neon cocktail glass and a sign that read Niles Street Bar. “Hey, Molly, I get off at 5. Think you might still be around if I stop by?”

Molly handed him 2 dollars plus a quarter tip and stepped out the driver’s side. Romano rolled down the window and leaned out eager as a cat ready to pounce on a saucer of milk.

“D’pends, Romano,” she said with a flirtatious swish of her hips, “. . . if Romano wants ta be naughty or just nice.”

He left his cab in park long enough to watch Molly skip across the sidewalk and enter. She was eager, anyone could see that, and even before the twin oak wood doors swung closed behind, she was swept up off her feet and flung in mid-air by a man with a pool cue still clutched in his hands.
 
 
Scene IV: Hillbilly Laureate
 
 
Back at home Gerald sat patiently awaited Katherine’s return. Supposedly he was there to insure she wasn’t disturbed. At least that’s what she had told him. Although with nothing more than the occasional marauding fly to worry about he didn’t see much need of that. If anything it seemed as though she just wanted him out of the way, yet close enough to keep an eye on him. Sort of like a teacher making a kid sit outside a classroom door.

Or so he imagined, because in actual fact, he hadn’t really spent all that much time in school. Although that wasn’t what his mother had told Katherine; “Yes, Ma’am, he’s near 18 an’ one of them high school grad-u-ates!” She lied!

That was last year when Molly came looking for employment. She said it with a ton of conviction too. Endeavoring to conceal the fact he was actually just 16 and hadn’t been past the 8th grade. Not that Katherine or any person of sound judgment could be that gullible. She had in fact a very discerning and knowledgeable eye. A very low tolerance for chicanery too, and had thrown out many for less. She would have done the same to Molly, if there hadn’t been something about the boy.

“Hmm, you’re near eighteen, a graduate and you’ve yet to steal some poor girl’s heart? My, but that does show initiative.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Molly answered for him. “I know he don’t shave none an’ got soft hands, but he don’t be takin’ after no girl’s, ‘cept his mama.”

“An’ he’s oodles sweet an’ smart an’ he’s wantin’ ta please, ain’t that right Sugar Plum?” His mother tried to sound reassuring.

Not that there was anything unusual about any of this. Where he came from boys entered adult life earlier than most. Boys his age already had families of their own and worked long hours on hard physical jobs. Tending to the family farm or doing what work they could for the only business in town, the Rayburn Mine. Where it was said, “the black-soot of the hobgoblin consumes men and spit out their bones” in a ghastly cave just north of town.

Fortunately that wasn’t in the cards for Gerald. That coal-mining town was too small for Molly and just as soon as she could get out of town she made a sprint for the big city, her sixteen year old son in tow. A big up-tick in the social climate for his mother, but the uprooting made little difference for Gerald. Instead of his grandma, he now had Katherine’s hand to hold. Plus he still had to be there for his mom when she decided to come home, usually too inebriated to manage on her own.

It might not sound like much, but it wasn’t paradise back home either. The backwoods town he came from was a very tough place. As his mom liked to remind him: “If them folks had teeth they’d be tougher then them be’ars.” She’d joke, but she was right, and he knew it. It was a scary place, especially for a kid who by popular consensus would’ve looked better in lipstick than Gretel McCracken — the perennial belle of the Harvest Dance.

Though, thankfully, he was graced with some survival skills. He was fast on his feet. Small blessing perhaps, but hey! When you’re wiry as a fence post a guy has to go with whatever he’s got to cover his butt, otherwise the bigger kids will be covering it for you.

“Hey, Twerp, slow the f*** down!” What more incentive did he need? “Else you be gettin’ it good!” Well now, that’ll provide some getup n’ go.

Which it did, you know, quick as a flash he’d dart off across the fields hoping at best to outlast them, or if he was lucky, they found interest in something else. Like scaring the shit out of the hens in old man Hick’s chicken coup just out of range of the buck shot. Although not always. Sometimes the chase lasted until he reached his doorstep where defended by his mom she’d send them scurrying away with a word or two about their “limp dick” relatives.

She was never one to mince her words. Not with the boys, their ingrate fathers nor her own son.

“You don’t take none after your papa,” she seemed quite sure. Although not quite as sure about what gene pool he could have emerged from. “I think you was meant to be a girl, Pea’ches, ‘cause there ain’t no man I ever saw as girlie as you.”

That was his mom. Not the brightest firefly in the jar, but for all her shortcomings he knew where her heart was. Well, in general terms anyway. Leastwise enough to know she was only trying to help as best she knew how. So it wasn’t asking much of him to sit and wait outside that room holding his ground against the occasional marauding fly. Besides, as Molly liked to say, “Its good paying work, an’ plenty better than that nasty ol’mine.”

The room that Katherine liked to lock herself away in supposedly belonged to her daughter, Amelia. That’s what Rosie had told Molly because that’s what Katherine had told Rose, or supposedly so. At least that’s what he thought he heard in the kitchen when he and his mother were on break and Rose was busy scrubbing her pots and pans. Of course Rose was never much for small talk. Especially when bent over a hot sink as she was when Molly began pestering her for the details.

“The room is just like Amelia done left it two years ago, ain’t that right, Rosie?”

“Don’t be askin’ me!” Rose finally came alive, rising up from her sink to wipe away the perspiration from her brow.

“That ways when she comes home from that fancy finishin’ school everythin’ will be just like she done left it. Right, Rosie?”

“Like I said,” Rose turned about in a huff, “don’t be askin’ me! I ain’t got wings and I’m too old to be climbing a ladder to peek in some upstairs window.”

“Jiminy, Rosie!” Molly laughed. “Do yah mean Rosie done lost her feathers too?”

Rose wasn’t laughing. “Yes!” She menaced, waving the frying pan she had been scrubbing in Molly’s direction. “I’m an old bird, but I still got my claws so watch your sass, girl.”

“Golly, Rosie, I was just teasin’.”

“Well . . .” Rose relented, “Katherine has all but said as much, though I haven’t seen it myself with my own eyes. I suppose she’ll tell me for certain when she’s ready.”

“You see, Pea’ches, she’s just be rememberin’ her daughter, that’s all,” she sounded quite sure.

Then again, nobody knew exactly what was true and what wasn’t. Rose was just as slow on the details as Katherine was in passing them on. For all Gerald knew she could have had a dead body stashed away in there. The only thing certain was that no one was allowed in the room and the mystery permeated through everyone and everything in that grand Brooklyn home. Especially Gerald, but then he was just the houseboy and as Molly frequently reminded him, it came with the territory.

“Don’t be snoopin’ none ‘cause her business be her business.”

“I ain’t ma.”

“That’s my Pea’ches. Just don’t be payin’ that room no mind. Lessen you be seein’ ghosts or hobgoblins or somethin’ walkin’ round.” Molly cajoled and Gerald laughed as she walked in a circle like a zombie, stiff-legged and her arms stretched out.

“If it be scarin’ yah, just tell Rosie an’ she’ll giv’um a good whack with her fryin’ pan.”

Consoling words. It was like adding fuel to his already smoldering imagination. Not unlike those notions of dead bodies that occasionally occupied his thoughts. Or those of the hobgoblin his mother had said lay in wait for him back home. While at other times he thought of nothing more than that carnation he had been asked to hold. Katherine had said it had “the bloom of my daughter’s cheeks, the fragrance of her hair and the beauty of her smile.”

What Molly had said! What Katherine had said! The two diverging thoughts were as different as the two women who owned them. One was hedged with trepidation and laced with images of dead bodies that chilled him to the bone. The other was a pleasant, wistful thought, comparing her love with the beauty of a flower. He wondered what it would be like to know love like that.

He was lost in that thought with his eyes closed and head resting back against the wall when Katherine reemerged, relocked the door and picked up the carnation.

“Very well, Gerald. Have I found you sleeping, young man?” She asked, only it was uttered in a voice a bit more distant than usual, as if distracted by her thoughts. An aspect of her that emerged whenever she stepped out of that room, something she didn’t share with others, but reserved for him alone.

“No, ma’am.”

“I think I’ve caught you in a little white lie, but you needn’t feel ashamed. My Amelia liked to take a nap after lunch. She liked to curl up on my lap and I’d sing her a lullaby.”

“Would you like that?” she asked, again sounding as if championing his cause, and again with that same detached voice.

“Pardon, ma’am, but I’m ready to work if you be wantin’ me to.”

“That’s quite alright. Now come along and we’ll see what soup Rose has ready for lunch. Afterward you can rest a bit before you begin your mother’s chores.”

Downstairs, the carnation was returned to its vase and Gerald again seated. In the kitchen Katherine found the covered pot of soup still warm sitting on the stove, the bread, jam and tea already waiting on the cart. Katherine finished putting the meal together then poured a little something from her painful past into his afternoon tea before wheeling the cart out.

After the jam had been spread on his bread and his bowl filled with the soup, she withdrew a bib from the drawer of a nearby buffet. Promptly she tucked that bib into the collar of his white linen shirt, while Gerald, accustom to the babying held his chin high.

Keep in mind this wasn’t the same resolute woman who served up the morning meal. This was the wistful, yearning woman decidedly more removed, though equally meticulous as she fastened that child’s bib about his neck — and, albeit not the same, as securely as a hangman would fasten a noose. When snug fit she pulled up a chair and sat down beside him.

Now Katherine didn’t partake in the meal. She never did, but it was important for a growing boy to get a proper meal. Or so she explained as she draped one hand about his waist and with the other, picked up the soup spoon to insure he did. While Gerald, seemingly lost in his revere sat patiently waiting for the trap door to open up beneath his feet.

Well, not really! The poor choice of metaphors aside, there really wasn’t much of a trap door there. At least one that Gerald wouldn’t mind falling through. If he had any reason to fear the floor opening up beneath his feet it would have been that none of this would be here for him tomorrow. Of course he hadn’t always felt that way.

Nope, in fact he didn’t feel comfortable about it at all, at least not at first. Although you have to wonder why since his grandma and mom did the same. You know, treating him like a little boy when he wasn’t, and they knew it, but did it anyway because that’s just what grandmas and moms are supposed to do. Only Katherine wasn’t family and he worried she might be doing it just to poke fun of him, or something.

Over time however that slowly began to change. That is once he began to realize it was just in her nature. It was just the person she was. Now whenever they were together the moment generated an energy all its own. Especially when alone with her, when he felt like straw close-in to the fire ready to explode with a wisp of her breath.

It wasn’t easy keeping those kinds of feelings hidden. Not from the keen eyes of Katherine nor his own mother when she happened to be in the same room. As she often was, standing at her place behind Katherine and always with that same inscrutable smile. A smile that was no more helpful than the tortured opinions she was occasionally known to cough up.

“Don’t be frettin’ none. She just thinks kids is s’posed to be babied,” was the usual refrain. “Just let the eccentric ol’biddy have her peace of mind.”

“’Sides, there ain’t no harm in it. Same as grandma be doin’. You’re just a sweet lil’baby to grandma too,” she’d tease, pinch his cheek and offer up a “coochie-choochie-coo.”

“Ain’t no different, Sugar Plum.” Then she’d step back, wag her finger and offer up in a more solemn tone, “’Sides, its good payin’ work!”

That too was his mother, the hillbilly laureate, his wellspring of wisdom. Nonetheless, with or without her help he eventually began to feel quite differently about it all. Now it felt as warm to him as the mouthfuls of soup she spooned out.

A rather unusual accommodation, some might think. The world is nothing less than long on opinions. As was his mom. Yet even as simplistic and self-servicing as her logic tended to be, Gerald found it hard to disagree. “B’sides, it’s plenty better then that nasty ol’mine.”

Which by chance, happened to be absolutely true. So he was quite willing to follow her script at the dinning room table. Just as he did while he sat out the hours outside that room. Or when she prompted him to “open wide,” or while she led him about by the hand.

It seemed the least he could do for this woman who was so different from his mom. One woman was caring, sensitive to his needs, while the other was an unfinished product and not likely to be anytime soon. Worst of all he saw no hope in his mother’s eyes. At least not with the same promise he saw in Katherine’s.

So after lunch he’d curl up with his eyes shut, his head on her lap. Katherine in turn would hum her melody, while he, alone in his warm, coddled, babified world would try to sort through his feelings. Uncertain about most, but quite certain about how special her attention made him feel.

Oh True, even a backwoods country boy knew this wasn’t the way normal folks conducted themselves. Not here in this fashionable Brooklyn neighborhood. Not in the Virginia foothills. Still, that didn’t diminish his feelings for her. She was a titanic force in his life, one he didn’t mind reckoning with or going the extra half-measure just to please.

Of course neither he nor his mother nor Rose really knew the whole truth about Katherine. That she kept carefully locked away. Buried beneath the great pain she suffered from all the years of torment in trying to conceive a child. The blame and the guilt she bore. The efforts and all she had to endure with the doctors and untried fertility treatments that had left her physically and mentally ravaged by the effects to this day, but barren nonetheless.

Now with her husband gone, she had nothing more to show for it. Except for the scares, that one room upstairs and the countless bottles of fertility serums still unused. That was Katherine’s legacy now: A lifetime of hope that once burned like a fire had grown cold, and Gerald, with a spark in his eyes that in some odd way rekindled it.

         “Only The Lonely,” Roy Orbison, Monument Records,  © 1960.

         “Annie Hall,” TM & C @ 1977, United Artists Pictures, lic. MGM.
 
 
Acknowledgment: I would like to gratefully acknowledge cs. for her editorial support, guidance and infinite wisdom, all dispensed with a heart as large as her titanic talent. Thank you cs, you represent all the best our community has to offer. (*_*)

 ©2008 by josie. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.

xxx

Murphy's Law Revised Part 1: Scenes V-VII By Josie “Murphy understood the law and knew justice. He also knew that the two were often not the same. To catch the bad guy and win a confession, you had to be willing to step outside the box and take chances. That’s what made him a great cop. But that didn’t give him the right to take the law in his own hands. All he had to do was have a boy examined to confirm his true gender and now his mistake was going to cost him. Maybe his job? Maybe a demotion? But then nothing in this case was turning out like it should. He should have seen this coming. He should have known that you can test the odds and you can test your resolve, but never pit your luck against Murphy’s Law. Because sure as the devil will get his due, anything that can go wrong, will go wrong!”

Originally written in 2007, Revised and Reposted 2009.
 
All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 

 
 
Scene V: A Lioness in her Prime
 
 
Molly laid sprawled out on top the covers. Her nude form flushed a rose pink, blotched with red and covered in sweat from head to toe. “Must be the liquor,” she thought to herself as she fought to sit up. Although from the way she felt she knew that wasn’t the whole truth of it.

The toilet in the next room flushed and Charlie emerged. Naked, the hefty length of him swung like a pendulum matching the sway in his stride. Molly smiled as he approached and then jumped on top of her crushing the air from her lungs. She clutched his face in her palms, kissed him with a passion and again felt him wanting still more of her. It was going to be a long night.

By Saturday night, Charlie had had enough. He sat up on the bed, his jeans on, his chest bare and his last can of beer in his hand. “I’m going to head out and get some more brew kid.”

“A bottle of Jack,” Molly uttered with a gravelly whisper. Her face was buried beneath the elbow she had draped over her eyes.

“Jesus, Molly, you’re a lush if I ever saw one. Don’t you ever get enough?”

Molly leaned up on her elbows in a flash, now looking alert, like a lioness with her ears back sniffing the air for trouble. “What’s the bother, Charlie? Fraid yah ain’t man enough for me?”

“Man enough,” Charlie slapped his thigh a bit put out. “Damn it, you’ve driven this rig the distance already and I need a fill up.”

“A rig, is that what you be callin’ that thing you be haulin’?” Molly continued, as if circling to probe for weaknesses in the injured animal.

“Yeah, I ain’t been hearin’ no complaints.”

“I’ve been kind,” the lioness tightened her circle, sensing a kill. “I should’a just packed it in when I saw you was drivin’ one of them cheap foreign imports.”

“Damn, girl, what you be needin’ is a Mac truck with a trail hitch. To haul your little ass back home to your Papa to see if he can tighten your ass up.”

“You swine!” Our lioness pounced on the limp prey, going for the kill.

“I ain’t got no Papa . . . no mamma either! I don’t be needin’ no tightenin’ up either, lil’boy. What I be needin’ is a real man, someone who be appreciatin’ a good woman.”

Molly wasted little more of her time. In less time than it took to write it down on this page, she had picked herself up, dressed and made a dash for the door. This was a lioness in her prime, her mouth still dripping with fresh blood, the man’s testicles nowhere to be seen.

An instant later the door slammed with such a force Charlie thought the walls were about to collapse in on him. Whether fearing he might be crushed in the collapse of the ceiling, or just now realized he didn’t want the girl to leave, he jumped up and ran to the door. Opening it he yelled out at the figure still within his sight. “Molly, you know I love you girl.” It was a heartfelt plea, yet even he knew it was too late and too bad for Charlie.

She was a pretty girl with a taste for Jack and a taste for his two legged brethren as she rolled back into the Niles Street Bar. She had an insatiable thirst in her heart, no question about that, and when she spotted Milton the lioness again advanced for the attack. A meal she really looked forward to, and said so from the get-go. An hour later she was in yet another man’s bed, her bottle of Jack in her hands, a new lover on the advance.
 
 
Scene VI: Queen of the Nile
 
 
Molly quietly entered the back gate and then the flat she shared with her son in the basement of Katherine’s home. She threw her things on top of her bed, noticing Gerald’s bed was still as tightly made as she had left it. He had not slept there, but she could have expected as much.

Not that she was uncomfortable with that. It was safer that way and she knew her Gerald would have been well taken care of. He was a young man now. Not completely of age, but too old to still be tied to the strings of her apron. So she quickly showered, dressed in a more modest uniform and headed upstairs to work.

Monday morning, 8 A.M, and Molly was right on time. She was still as refined as raw sugar, but at least she was wearing a knee-length skirt and heels with a more modest rake. She looked quite presentable and ready for work. Well, leastwise the mirror seemed to agree.

“Mornin’ Rosie,” Molly said with a bit less zip in her step. She was obviously still hazy from the night before. The instant transition from Queen of the Nile to common household maid had her in a fog. Not fully in touch with herself or aware of her son standing behind her just a few feet away.

Rosie looked up from her work at the stove. She was standing in exactly the same place she always stood. The black marks on the linoleum outlining the spot. “Morning Molly, I see you’ve taken my advice.”

“Oh, Rosie, y’know I always be listenin’ to yah,” Molly came up from behind to give her a hug. Then with her lips nuzzling her ear, “You’re like my mama, an’ I always be listenin’ to the good heart of my mama.”

“I see,” Rose tried not to show her usual skepticism. “Then I suppose that means you got your fill this weekend?”

“Nah, uh-uh,” Molly rose up and laughed. “I just said to myself maybe I oughta put in some work round here. Straighten up some, y’know. Only I can’t be rememberin’ where I done put my apron. I would’a swore it was b’side my bed.”

“Why don’t you ask your son?”

“Pea’ches? Oh, yeah . . . seen him this mornin’, Rosie?”

“Well, you might ask that fancy thing standing right behind you. I suspect he might know.”

Molly spun round and saw him wearing her apron. “Is that you, Pea’ches?” she laughed though she knew right off she shouldn’t have. Not at his expense anyway. Then again, seeing him wearing her wrap-around apron framed quite the picture. The fancy ruffles and lace draped nearly to his knees.

Other than a hint of a blush, he seemed to be taking it all in stride. As if it was an everyday sort of thing that came with the job. Which it did, only her job not his. Still she saw nothing wrong-headed about it. After all, in her absence he was expected to perform the same duties. Only she’d never seen him wearing it before so she wondered, “why now?”

Whatever the reason it looked as though he’d filled in for her quite nicely. That was reassuring, as was the sight of him smiling back. So instead of asking, she posed, flamboyantly with one hand on her bent hip and the other hand draped out with a sassy limp wrist. “Ugh-la-la, Mademoiselle, Gerald! May I have this dance?”

Even Rose had to laugh, and caught up in the merriment Molly once again began snapping her fingers and shuffling her feet, advancing toward the slue-foot boy. “Oh, the shark has, pretty teeth, dear . . .”

With flair she scooped him up and began to bop. The apron billowed as mother and son whipped about like spindrift over a frenzied winter’s sea. Neither skirt quite in sync as they took flight. Limbs going one way, hair scattered in another, bedlam ruling over order. While at the same time it looked as though both were having the time of their lives.

Rose said nothing. Instead she began setting up the breakfast cart knowing she’d probably end up doing it herself regardless. Finishing not a moment too soon as Katherine made her appearance. The play came to a stop, Rose gave a curtsy and Molly struggled to reinsert the bobby pins that had fallen out of her bun. “Morning ma’am,” the trio followed in unison.

“Morning Rose . . . Molly. Is breakfast ready?”

“Yes ma’am,” Rose followed.

Katherine looked toward Molly. The tangled mess of her hair was only out done by the dark rings of discoloration under her eyes. Something Molly had tried hard to hide beneath the thick coat of make-up. Signs of overindulgence and a lack of sleep that had been obvious even to her.

With a sigh, Molly gave up on the effort to rebind her hair then lowered her head and tried to sound contrite. “Ma’am, my son seems to be in p’session of my apron.”

Katherine turned away so as not to show the contempt she felt for this half-wit girl and undeserving mother. Her reckless abandon, her cavalier attitude toward work and her responsibilities as a mother composed a picture of a girl on self-destruct. “But that is no concern of mine,” she seethed. “All I need to do is provide the rope and the gallows. Then stand by to watch the girl hang herself.”

“It’s not a matter, Molly,” she finally replied in hopes of clearing the air. Then once again she took hold of Gerald’s hand and turned toward the dinning room door. “Well . . . Gerald, Molly, come along. Breakfast grows cold.” Cold, but not nearly as biting as the contempt that lurked beneath her smile. A moment later she was helping Gerald to his seat while Molly followed closely behind with the breakfast cart in tow.

Again, both the meal and all the preparation followed the form Katherine expected. It was also another quiet affair, and when done, she rose to give Molly her morning instructions. Only this time matters took a decidedly different turn.

“Molly, I know how difficult it must be for a young attractive girl such as yourself to have to give so much to your work and your family. Somehow there just doesn’t seem to be one once of fairness in this world. You are deserving of so much more.”

“Take your apron as an example,” she continued while Molly looked puzzled, uncertain as to where this might be leading. “You could have asked your son to give it back, but you didn’t, because you put his interest first, irregardless of what was best for you. That kind of sacrifice is highly commendable and should not go unrewarded. You truly are a wonderful mother and a marvelous employee. You deserve better, so I’m going to help you do better. That is, if you will allow me.”

“Gerald, would you be a dear and go to my bedroom and fetch my purse,” Katherine asked Gerald, but her sights remained locked-in on Molly. “You’ll find it on the chair, where you last set your mother’s cap and her pumps.” Ka-boom!

Now to be fair, Molly hadn’t noticed the pumps were missing. With a closet full it would have been hard to do so, especially in a rush. Nevertheless, if Katherine was looking for the knock out blow this clearly wasn’t it. Not with the thought of that money and the prospects of yet another night on the town looming on the near horizon.

Of course Molly had no way of knowing what was really going on, but even if Gerald had been coaxed into her heels he wasn’t exactly crying out for intervention. As she saw it, “if he don’t be likin’ it he can just say so.” He was certainly capable of that, right?

“Besides,” she liked to tell herself, “he oughta be used’ta it by now. Same as his grandma be doin’. He’s just a sweet li’baby to grandma too.” “Ain’t no harm in it,” she was all too willing to dismiss.

Instead her smile went into near supernova over the prospects for yet another night out with Charley, Jack (hold the ice) and her own pair of shoes. Lovely those pumps were too. Perfect shoes for a day cruise at the Nile. Something that gave her an extra spring in her step once she again had that nice fold of cash clutched in her hands.

Those elegant shoes provided for a quick exit too. She didn’t even stop to change her clothes or say good-bye, good luck, or good-riddance to her son. With a devil-might-care grin on her face she only gave time to Rose, pausing but a moment as she flung herself out the door. “Be Seein’ yah in a few, Rosie. Now don’t yah be keepin’ no lights on, y’hear.”

Like a queen of old and of new, she sailed off into the streets, her desert oasis. Off to enjoy a cruise down at the Nile. Inside the house Katherine stood by the window watching her depart. She was simmering on low heat.

On the table a stainless steel carving knife mirrored the morning light that pierced through the pane casting its wraith-like silhouette across her face. Watching Molly depart, her hatred festered and the wheels of justice spun madly, insanely out of control inside her head. Justice! Not the law that stood in her way.

She turned away from the window and looked at Gerald then at the knife she had used to cut the morning ham. “Yes, the girl is going to get her due, soon enough!” Katherine hissed between clenched teeth. Then as if with a vengeance, she gripped the knife in her fist and stormed out of the room to return it to the kitchen.
 
 
Scene VII: Willie McGee
Three months later . . .
 
 
February 3, 1961
 
 
It was cold out and a light dusting of snow covered the ground that had fallen over the course of the night. Rose sat at the kitchen table drinking a warm cup of tea resting her tired feet. Beside her was the morning paper. Always a bearer of bad news, and more bad news was the last thing she needed at the moment. She could only hope for the better, but when she read the headlines it couldn’t have been worse.

That morning Katherine had greeted her with the first bit of bad news. Molly and Gerald had left. Molly had quit her job. Where they had gone no body knew. They just walked off and vanished into the night. That alone was bad enough, and now this. The large bold print read there had been a ghastly murder committed in her neighborhood. The body of a beautiful young woman had been dumped in the gutter close to Slade Street and not far from her door.

As the story read, the unidentified victim had been stabbed through the heart. The police hadn’t even a tentative ID. It could have been a missing prostitute last seen working the seedy lower west-side of Manhattan, but nobody was certain. The only clues were her make-up and her dress. From her clothes they suspected she was either a tawdry lady out for a night on the town, or perhaps someone who was herself involved in the nefarious underworld of crime.

According to a gentleman who lived close by it had been a very quiet night. He had been looking out his window waiting up for his daughter who hadn’t as yet returned home from a late night date. It had been snowing and there had been very little traffic other than the occasional taxi. One in particular he thought was looking for an address. A Checkered Cab that had passed by slowly, traveling in starts and stops before it finally sped off.

The whole matter had Rose in a spin. She felt such sorrow for the girl and worried about Molly too. Of course Molly was not alone. She had Gerald with her and she found that reassuring. Surely with her son at her side nothing like this could happen to her.

She also worried about Katherine. She wondered how she would do without them. She felt certain Katherine would soon find a replacement. While in the intermediate time she’d have to do whatever she could to help out. That meant only one thing to her. For the next several weeks her poor feet would be screaming at her the whole night long. All the same it was something she would do to help the woman who had been so good to her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the kitchen door. It was Mr. McGee, Katherine’s gardener, working in the cold of winter just as he did in the heat and the humidity of a Brooklyn summer. He wore a thick fleece coat under his wet weather slick making the man look a few sizes larger than he already was. He also wore a rather large smile and had an even larger rhubarb pie in his hands.

“Fresh made by the Misses,” Willie proudly proclaimed. “For Mrs. Katherine, and the Misses says to be sure to tell Rosie to help herself to a big piece too.” In his mid-40’s he was a powerfully built man sized like a heavyweight with the broad nose of a boxer and hands hard and leathery almost as large as the 9 inch pie.

“Why thank you, I’ll be sure to pass along your wife’s message, Willie.” She felt taken by the kind gesture, gently caressing his hands in hers before relieving him of the pie. “Wait one moment, Willie. I have something for you as well.”

Rose set the pie on the table then returned with an envelope. It was his pay, and it was her job to deliver it. The same way all matters between Katherine and Willie were handled. Actually Katherine never even spoke to him, nor did she venture into the backyard while Willie was there.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like him or speak highly of him as rightly she should. She knew she wouldn’t have the finest garden in all of Brooklyn without the man with the green thumb. It was just the way Katherine divided up her world to insure the one thing she treasured most: Her privacy.

Something she fiercely guarded, even in her dealing with Rose. There too she had constructed this sort of minimalist “no fraternizing with the employees” wall of privacy that everyone took great care not to breach. Engaging their daily work guided by this unwritten law. An unwritten law that not only kept Katherine from venturing out into the yard, but also kept Rose from venturing out of her kitchen and Willie left alone in his garden.

“The Misses and me be thanking you, Miss Rose,” he replied as he maneuvered through the layers of winter wear to tuck the envelope in his back pocket. In the process a stainless steel carving knife slipped from a side pocket and fall to his feet.

“Oh, sorry ‘bout that, ma’am,” he muttered then stooped down in that overly apologetic, overly anxious way of a man suddenly caught with his zipper down. “Be needin’ it to cut me some slips from the rose bushes this mornin’.”

“Yes, but you need be more careful, Willie. It nearly stuck your foot.”

“Yes ma’am, nearly did,” Willie sheepishly muttered, “and it’s plenty sharp too. Could’ah cut me clean through easy enough.”

Quickly he put the knife back into his pocket along with the envelope without bothering to count it. Though there was never a need. Katherine always paid a generous amount, always more than what was expected and always in cash. More than most black man in his field of work could earn in two jobs.

“Oh, and please tell Mrs. Katherine if she be needin’ anything, any help at all, ‘her Willie’ is here to help. Now you be sure to tell her, hear?”

“Her Willie!” She wasn’t sure if he had meant it quite the way it sounded, but it was a very kind overture coming from a very kind man. He was not just an employee. He was a loyal and trustworthy man who didn’t mind braving the elements to protect the plants from the cold. Just as the man would have gladly sown his own blood if either his garden or Katherine were in need.

“I’ll be sure to tell Mrs. Kline, Willie. By the way, why are you working on a day like this? There couldn’t be anything so important it couldn’t wait.”

“No Ma’am, you’re wrong there. I got some pots to oil up and set out on account of the freeze. I gotta clean the snow off the plastic covering and I got me them slips to cut too. Only don’t go worrying about me none. I’m going to light me up one of those pots and put it in the tool shed to keep me nice and warm.”

“Well, don’t you be working too long in the cold.” Willie nodded then turned to descend the stairs.

It was a slow descent, not handled easily like a man in his prime. His hobbled knees showed the signs of a life of hard work. Out in the garden she had often seen him struggle as if in great pain just to get up from his hands and his knees. Yet she knew this man meant every word he had said, and the fact that this man could yet be so giving could only mean one thing. Maybe everything wasn’t so bad after all. With or without Molly and Gerald, Katherine would manage just fine.

         “Only The Lonely,” Roy Orbison, Monument Records,  © 1960.

         “Annie Hall,” TM & C @ 1977, United Artists Pictures, lic. MGM.
 
 
Acknowledgment: I would like to gratefully acknowledge cs. for her editorial support, guidance and infinite wisdom, all dispensed with a heart as large as her titanic talent. Thank you cs, you represent all the best our community has to offer. (*_*)

 ©2008 by josie. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.

xxx

Murphy's Law Revised Part II: Scenes I-IV By Josie “Murphy understood the law and knew justice. He also knew that the two were often not the same. To catch the bad guy and win a confession, you had to be willing to step outside the box and take chances. That’s what made him a great cop. But that didn’t give him the right to take the law in his own hands. All he had to do was have a boy examined to confirm his true gender and now his mistake was going to cost him. Maybe his job? Maybe a demotion? But then nothing in this case was turning out like it should. He should have seen this coming. He should have known that you can test the odds and you can test your resolve, but never pit your luck against Murphy’s Law. Because sure as the devil will get his due, anything that can go wrong, will go wrong!”

Originally written in 2007, Revised and Reposted 2009.
 
All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 

 
 
Scene I: Eight months later . . .

September 1, 1961
 
 
Charlie sat on a bench outside Detective Murphy’s office waiting patiently. He had been instructed to wait, which he did amidst the clatter of typewriters and policemen milling about. Although no one in the busy place seemed to pay him much notice. One fellow in a white shirt and tie had inadvertently tripped over his extended legs. One or two others asked what he was doing there while others just sneered in passing. Otherwise he was left to his own. Just another schmuck sitting in Temple Street Station during the morning shift change, and at the moment, he was feeling a bit out of his comfort zone.

He had already been sitting for an hour and was about to give up the wait when he spotted a guy walking toward the office who looked important and very much in his comfort zone. The kind of guy others walked around, not through as they walked down the hall. Except for one passer-by who couldn’t resist a playful jab to the gut along with the usual glib remark, “Hey Spike, bout time you showed for work”

That’s what he called him, “Spike.” To Charlie, he looked like a Spike too. It wasn’t as though Charlie himself wasn’t a big man. He had a noted mean streak and not many ventured to press him for a hard time. It was the fact that he was in a police station, where everyone strolled by in nicely pressed uniforms or dress-coat and tie, except Jack Murphy. He was unshaven, he wore no coat or tie and his shirt tail hung out behind.

“Now that’s a Spike,” he through to himself, “A man who danced to his own tune, and from his willful look, one quite use to getting his man.”

“Detective Murphy?” Charlie asked as he stood up and placed himself between the detective and the office door he wanted to enter.

“Yeah, least that’s what my psychiatrist keeps telling me.”

“Good Morning, Detective Murphy. I got me a little concern here. Something I thought you might be able to help me with.”

Jack looked him up and down before responding, as if sizing him up. From the look of his navy blue work trousers and his first mates cap he thought he could get away with a snub. “I’m busy, go see the desk clerk.”

Of course, Charlie had been around the block once or twice, and had dealt with his share of policeman. He knew to be respectful, but he put on his pants the same way and wasn’t about to hear it. “It’s important, Detective, real important!”

Jack looked him in the eye. Then as if afraid to show weakness he continued his way partially through, and partially around the bigger man as he said to Charlie, “Yeah, okay. Come in, we’ll talk.”

Stepping into his office, Jack was immediately descended upon by his new assistant, a rookie cop fresh out of the academy. The rookie had only recently been assigned to him until the department could arrange for the transfer of a qualified officer. “Detective Murphy, I got those reports you asked for. I’ve put them on your desk. You also got a call from a Mrs. Gretchen Heller. She asked for you to call her back when you get in.”

“Yeah, okay, Cee-cil,” Jack mocked the name. Damn, how he hated to ever say it. No matter how he cut it, Cecil Benover just wasn’t a respectable cop’s name and he couldn’t wait to get rid of the kid. “Now, why don’t you run along and show me how well you learned to fetch coffee at the academy,” he followed up with a contemptuous sneer as he waved Cecil off. Then taking a seat behind his desk, he motioned toward Charlie. “Come have a seat, mister . . . mister?”

“Claiborne, Charlie Claiborne.”

“Okay, mister Clay-born, what’s on your mind?”

“That’s Clai-borne, and I’ve a missing person to report.”

Jack exhaled a sigh of exasperation, believing himself right about Charlie from the start. “Look dumb ass, you file a missing persons report at the front desk, but only after waiting 30 days, and only if it ain’t your wife, ‘cause I’m too damn busy to be looking for your old lady who’s probably run off with some other guy. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Ah, I ain’t trying to be rude or nothin’, but that would be a friend who is missing, not my wife, and it’s been 8 months. She disappeared leaving behind everything untouched, handbag and all.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m listening.”

“I’m a Merchant Marine,” Charlie proudly beamed. “I work me 8 months straight then I get me 4 months off. You see, that’s how it is in my line of work.” Charley followed as he removed, then held out his gnarled blue seamen’s cap to show Jack. It was as though that rag cap visibly weathered by salt and sea would somehow legitimize his claim.

“Yeah, well . . .”

“Yeah well, I’ve been crisscrossing between here and Osaka hauling them little Japanese cars for the past 8 months and because she asked me, I let her use my place while I was gone. When I got back I found her missing. Her stuff untouched, exactly how it was before I left. I’m talking everything, Mr. Murphy, her dresses, undies, jewelry, make-up, shoes; the works. Even a locket her mama gave her. Heck, even the liquor was untouched.”

“Yeah, so . . ?”

“So I’ve spent the better part of the last 3 weeks asking around, and no one’s seen hide or hair of her. I think . . . no, I know something’s up.”

“This missing person, she’s a friend who lived with you?”

“Yeah, off and on, you could say that. She lived where she worked, but she chummed up with me mostly. Anywhere else she might be I’ve checked. I asked her employer too.”

“What did her employer say?”

“Nothin’. Just that she quit. Didn’t say were she was going. No word of explanation, stuff like that.”

“Well there’yah have it! She quit! Maybe she went back with mommy and daddy. It happens everyday.”

“Nope!”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she once told me the gold locket she wore belonged to her dearly departed mama. And she never knew her papa. That much she told me.”

“Okay, so maybe she went back home to shack up with some old boyfriend, you check on that, big fella?”

“Nope!”

“Why not, smart guy?”

“Because she never told me where she was from. I asked her once and I was kind of sorry I bothered to ask.”

“What’d she say?”

“Ah, nothing much. Just somethin’ bout a hobgoblin back home that eats up men and spits out their bones, and . . ,” Charlie shied away unsure if he should go on.

“Yah, and . . ?”

“. . . and them kind of bones ain’t no use to me,” Charley shrugged.

Jack chuckled and sat back in his chair feeling comfortable with the guy. He saw him as an honest, hard working man who played by the rules. He was the kind of guy he could sit down and share a drink with, his girlfriend no doubt the same.

“I guess it ain’t much to go on, but I figured if she wanted me to know more she would’ve said. So I didn’t ask no more. One thing I know for certain though. She wasn’t from Brooklyn.”

“Oh, what makes you say that?”

“Her accent! It was like she just rolled out of the hills and landed here without a step between. That said to me she ain’t been here long, if you catch my meaning, Mr. Murphy.”

“Ah hu! So you’re saying you don’t even know where she’s from, this Miss . . . Miss whatever her name is?”

“No, sorry, I don’t. Like I say, she never said, but her name is Molly and she used to work as a maid for a Mrs. Kline down on Slade Street.”

“Molly? Molly who?”

“Molly I don’t know her last name.”

“Hey fella!” Jack barked a bit put out. “Whatever you’re selling I ain’t buying. I figure a man can go without knowing where a girl from, but sorry! No last name? Either you’re working for the Department of Practical Jokers ready to spring a ‘gotcha’ on me or you’re one dumb ass. Either way I ain’t buying it.”

“Detective, look, she called herself Walker. That is until the scotch ran out and I set a bottle of Jack Daniels down in front of her. From then on it was Daniels,” Charlie threw up his hands and shrugged.

“The point is I wasn’t fixin’ to marry the girl. We was just having a good time. You know, ask a lot of questions and the next thing you know she’s wanting a wedding ring. Know what I mean?”

“Jesus, you come in here looking for a girl and you don’t even know her last name, where she’s from, or exactly how long she’s been missing and you want me to go find her! Look sonny, this isn’t the lost and found and I don’t have a crystal ball. I think you need to go back home and wait it out. If you’ve not heard from her in say . . . ahmm, a year or two, come back in and see me.”

“I ain’t going to do that, Detective!” Charlie replied, leaning in and squaring his shoulders. Maybe she ain’t no Madison Avenue skirt, but where I come from a man called Spike don’t stand around and let no bad thing happen to an innocent girl just because he ain’t got the time. Besides, I heard you were the best, and the way I got it figured, you oughta be takin’ some pride in that!”

Charlie’s speech caught his attention. Why not, Jack was a compassionate guy. Just ask his cat Rosco and he’d be the first to tell you the guy was as considerate and kindhearted as they come. Heck, he still visited his mother twice a week at the rest home. Like a religion, even though she couldn’t even remember his name.

That said, he was also a detective. A man hired by the citizens of the City and Borough of Brooklyn to sift through the facts so law and order would prevail. He wasn’t paid to waste time and taxpayers dollars chasing after every broad who flew the coop. He had to have the cold hard facts no matter his feelings. That’s why the Detective in him paused long and hard, and heaved an exasperated sigh. He had nothing concrete to go on.

However another part of him who wasn’t about to let it go. Spike! The bull dog in him who’s pride was piqued. “Spike” was to Jack Murphy’s “detective” as a prize fighter was to a thug. The polar opposite forces inside the otherwise compassionate man. One was shrewd and calculating, the other believing any weapon, by any means, is fair game when at war. It was the detective in him who played by the rules of law. It was Spike who knew if you only followed the rules and played by the percentages nothing would ever get done.

Spike also knew to win at this game you had to be willing to step outside the box and take chances. That’s what made him a great cop, or so he liked to take pride. That’s also why no one ever got away with slipping one past him. Ol’Spike always got his man. 100%, and with his pride now piqued it was Spike, not the detective who finally spoke out in response. “So you’re alleging fowl play here?”

“Look Mr. Murphy, if she got another job then why leave all her stuff behind? Why ask to use my place then not show up? Why would she hide away from her friends, say nothing or leave a note? No, she ain’t the type to disappear for no reason at all. Go ask around. Ain’t no one going to look you in the eye and tell you any different.”

“Yes, but she quit her job. She was obviously planning on doing something.”

“So? That don’t mean after she got paid something bad didn’t happened.”

Jack scratched his head. He thought on it a moment then exhaled with a gust ruffling the papers strewn about his desk, “Damn, I’m probably going to regret this, but . . . Got a description?”

“Yup, wrote it all down right here for yah,” Charlie was proud to say, handing over the slip of paper.

“Don’t bother over all the miss-pellings, I ain’t no brain surgeon.”

“She depressed, have mental problems or reason to want to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge?” Jack followed as he perused the description.

“Nah, not Molly, ask around. They’ll all tell you the same thing. Molly was fun loving gal and had the world by the tail.”

“How old is she?”

“30 something, don’t know for certain. Pretty little thing though.” Charlie fidgeted and flashed a grin, but only until he picked up on the serious look on Jack’s face. “So what’cha think, detective?”

Jack was rubbing his chin deep in concentration when Cecil returned with the coffee. “Well, I ain’t makin’ no promises, but . . .”

“Your coffee, sir,” Cecil interrupted.

“Enjoy it with your jelly donuts, son.” Jack stood up, grabbed his hat and signaled for Charlie to follow. On his way out the door the detective called back to Cecil. “Call that Heller woman and tell her I’ll call back tomorrow. Then I want you to run off to the city morgue and run a check on all unidentified victims for the past 8 months. I’m looking for a girl, age 30 to 35, 5-6,-5-7 approximately 120 pounds, green eyes, brunette, birth mark high upper right thigh. Got it?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Cecil grinned in a snide way, figuring the time was right to toss back to Jack a bit of his own medicine. “So how far up do you reckon I should be lookin’ for that birth mark, Detective Murphy?”

Cecil ducked out of the way just in time as the pencil Spike throw whistled just past his head. Had it not been for his quick reflexes, the thing would have stuck him right between the eyes.

“Get on it, pecker breath!”
 
 
Scene II: Amelia’s Return
 
 
Rose had the evening meal done, the dinner cart set and she was waiting for Katherine to come in and retrieve it. That had become her new routine ever since Molly and Gerald sprang for greener pastures 8 months ago. She had tried to get Katherine to hire a replacement. She had even offered the name of a friend in dire need of work. Speaking out even louder once Amelia, her daughter returned from finishing school. Katherine however thought differently, believing they could make do without.

Not the heavy work, like the laundry and the upkeep of the floors. She still contracted out for those services, but making the beds and putting up the freshly laundered linens wasn’t asking a lot of her. Even at her age there was still much she could do. Even so, she couldn’t help but feel some resentment in the way Molly had left. Leaving Katherine high and dry with no warning, no talking it over with her.

As Katherine explained it, “She came home just after 9 and Gerald was already in bed. She said something had come up and would have to leave. So I paid her the salary due then along with Gerald she went downstairs and packed up. I didn’t even hear her leave. Not a word of explanation. Not a ‘thank you’ or ‘good-by,’ or a word about where she was going.”

That was no way to treat Katherine, not after trying so hard to accommodate the girl. Favoring her like she would her own daughter. Gerald as if he were her son. To Rose, her actions were selfish and wrong-headed, and it pained her to a degree. Although, thankfully, all that soon chanced after Amelia’s unexpected return.

It was a blessing Amelia’s return had coincided so well with Molly’s departure. The timing, if not orchestrated couldn’t have been more perfect. Katherine seemed a different person now. She smiled a lot more and was obviously very proud of her daughter. Rose felt the same, even though she actually knew so little about her.

In actual fact Rose never saw much of Amelia. She never stepped foot in the kitchen just as Rose scarcely had reason to step out of it. Rose knew much of that could be expected of course. After all, busying herself with domestic chores was hardly something for a fine young woman to do. Least not after two years of finishing school.

Most of what Rose knew about her came from an occasional brief encounter. Usually just a glimpse from the back and screened by Katherine as mother and daughter scurried about, always in the wrong direction. So close they seemed, almost inseparable. As if Amelia was still tied to her nurturing mother for sustenance.

Rose found it all rather endearing to tell the truth, even though a bit out of the norm. She was nearly a grown woman after all, and would’ve expected something more in line with one woman relating to another. She supposed Katherine had good reason to treat her daughter as she did. She was young, fresh out of finishing school and perhaps because of it, a bit vulnerable too. She might have even done the same had she a daughter of her own. In that sense she felt a bit envious of the bond Katherine shared with her daughter. It was something quite special. Something she felt she wanted to understand better.

Of course she wasn’t about to admit to that. Rose was not a busybody, or so she prided herself. Nevertheless she hadn’t even been introduced to Amelia. Not formally, not otherwise. True, she had never asked for an introduction. She just assumed one would come when Katherine was ready. Unfortunately that day never came and now she couldn’t ask. Not after 8 months had past. It would appear nothing less than foolish.

Still the “not knowing” was always on her mind. She often wished she could look further in the recesses of the house to get an unbiased view of things. An unannounced view, on her own and not under Katherine’s direction as it was now. She saw no harm in that. After all, she wasn’t looking for material to gossip to the neighbors or to do malicious harm. Just to satisfy her interest. The only question was how.

She was a strong woman, but hobbled by age she had her limits. Still, it was a big house and never far from her mind was an incident that had once happened to her. It was many years ago, but it was still as fresh in her mind as the day it happened.

She was working as a maid in a house just as large. At the time she was going through her daily routine, in one room and out another. Busy, concentrating on her work and whatever else fills the imaginings of a working girl going through the humdrum of everyday life.

Everyone in the household had left for the day, leaving her alone to manage enough work for two maids under the watchful eye of three cats and a canary fearing for its life. It all kept her quit busy. To busy to notice, and had the mailman not appeared at the most opportune time, she wouldn’t have even known he was there. The mailman had caught the burglar red-handed coming out the front door. A bag full of the families’ best silver draped over his shoulder. The mailman tackled him, Rose called the police and in the ensuing investigation it was discovered the man had been in the house in plain sight the whole while.

The man had dressed to impersonate the floor maintenance man and knew just the right time to appear. Only you would’ve had to be paying attention, because it wasn’t the day he was supposed to be there. Exactly as the robber had planned it and no one took the slightest notice. He even admitted to have been in the same room with the husband and wife. Close enough to Rose to remove the silver from the buffet drawer while she was polishing the table not 5 feet away.

While this was a bold act of crime, it was not unusual. At least that’s how the investigating officer explained it. In fact, it was a well used tact by criminals. To sneak into a home when people are involved in their active lives and don’t expect it. Without reason to hide behind curtains when the best place to hide is in plain sight. Hiding amongst us is supposedly a common tool of the trade, a trick of the mind that can place criminals close enough to reach out and touch you and you’d never even know they were there.

Her door remained locked from that moment on. It also provided an important lesson in the complexities of human nature. Showing that sometimes the simplest solution is the most obvious, but least expected. A ploy she though might have some use for her as well, without appearing out of place or deliberately nosing about. All she needed to do was to make her presence common place. Not infrequent and announced as it was now.

Obviously she had never done anything like this before, and wearing her boots it wasn’t exactly cloak and dagger. Still, she figured if she kept her distance and they heard her plodding about often enough she might well become as inconspicuous as that criminal was to her. It’d take a ton of patience and a degree of stick-to-itiveness, but she exercised both and soon found out she was right. In no time at all she found herself peering in on some rather personal moments.

At first it was a matter of just watching quietly from a distance for a few precious moments. Just long enough to get a glimpse of her. To satisfy her curiosity you understand. To see her sitting beside Katherine, poised, musingly engaged and graced with her mother’s nature charm.

She was obviously a very beautiful young lady, but there was something else about her too. Something she couldn’t see from a brief and distance look that left her short of understanding and yearning to learn more. Like why Amelia dressed as she did, and why Katherine would allow it? Sometimes she dressed as no more than a child with oodles of petticoats and lace. Other times like . . . well, like Molly. Like a tawdry bar room hussy, with exaggerated heels, brief skirts and make-up that would venerate a 42nd Avenue drag queen.

Most of all she wondered why Katherine seemed so approving? Instead of screaming out at the excesses, she coddled her. As if Amelia were a child who needed to be told what to do and how it should be done. Instructions in life Katherine seemed too happy to give, her daughter only too happy to learn.
 
 
Scene III: The Investigation Begins
 
 
Jack Murphy looked around Charlie’s apartment with some skepticism. While the detective in him - the Sherlock holding the magnifying glass - surveyed the landscape with a fine tooth comb. Spike was another matter however. Spike, the bull-dog in him was busy checking out the finery. One item in particular, a rather stunning low cut red dress.

“Mercy! I’d say the broad knew how to jerk a guy’s chain. Did she bring all these goodies from the Kline residence?”

“Nah, she never brought stuff with her, except what she as wearing. This is just stuff she bought around here, when she stepped out to shop a bit.”

“Yeah? What stores she shop at?”

“Don’t know, I never asked.” Again Jack shook his head, while Spike leaned in close and spat out in a rather caustic tone, “Wouldn’t be trying to make it too easy on me now, would yah big fella?”

After two hours of going over the room and examining the suitcase full of clothes he had only two things to show for it. A set of prints and one short, low cut red dress. A unique dress with a unique designer label he hoped would be of help in his search. He had found nothing else of value. No ID, pictures, addresses or letters - Just the lingering scent of a chic young woman who had every reason to want to live. It wasn’t much to go on, but he wasn’t about to admit that to anyone else, including himself.

Actually Jack didn’t really say much of anything. He just mumbled to himself, scratched the back of his head and then asked Charlie for the names he was to talk to. The list didn’t give him a lot of confidence up front, but he had less to go on in the past and did well enough. He had the nose for it, and his nose led the way to the first name on the list — Katherine Kline.

Slade Street wasn’t that far away, and he knew the area well. He had even worked a homicide on the upper east end of Slade a couple of months back. An area housing predominately white professionals affluent enough to have hired help do their dirty laundry. As was the last case he worked there, an affluent businessman in cahoots with the butler to do his wife in. He saw it as that kind of place, dirt deeds going on behind plush velvet curtains. So when Katherine opened the door to invite him in, he had his well trained eye fixed on any suspicious movement coming from behind the drapery.

Katherine sat behind her late husband’s desk in the study. Jack sat in front, in view of her nicely toned legs slightly spread beneath the desk. Her daughter Amelia was standing behind her chair. “Mrs. Kline!”

“Yes detective, I’m Katherine Kline. This is my daughter Amelia. How may I help you?”

“Yes, um, pleased to meet you, Miss,” Jack mumbled with a nod toward Amelia while retrieving his notepad and pen.

He was not one for social protocol. The niceties always escaped him. However, those legs beneath the desk growing increasingly further apart hadn’t escaped Spike. Something that took up an inordinate amount of his attention as he stooped down to pick up the pen he had just dropped. “Ahum. Now, as I mentioned, Mrs. Kline I’m a detective with NYPD and I need ask you a few questions.”

“Certainly, Detective.”

“May I ask your maiden name, ma’am?”

“Stanton. Katherine Stanton Kline.”

“I thank you, Mrs. Kline! I’m looking for a person reported missing. I believe the girl worked for you. She went by the name Molly.”

“Yes, officer, that’s correct. She worked for me about a year ago, but she’s no longer employed by me. She was a good employee and I hated to see her go.”

“Fine, now if you could provide me with a last name please!”

“That would be SMITH. S-M-I . . .”

“Ma’am, please, I may be a flatfoot but I did go to school.”

“Yes . . . yes, of course. One moment detective,” she followed as she leaned down to retrieve a file from a desk drawer. “I think I have all you need right here in her payroll file.”

Jack looked up at the pretty, but demure looking girl standing behind Katherine now in plain view. She was dressed in a long sleeve white blouse and a blue plaid jumper bearing a crest that read, Amherst Girl’s Preparatory. He caught her looking at him for a short moment before again lowering her eyes. She was 18, 19 perhaps, with her short hair bobbed with bangs in the common fashion of the day.

“Quite pretty and built,” he thought. Maybe her legs were a bit too thin for his liking. He also thought her shoulders and knees conspired against her to a degree. Surely not fashion model material, but with her looks, she was going to make some lucky fellow a great wife.

Katherine sat up holding a vanilla folder in her hand. “I think you’ll find what you need right here, detective.” She smiled as she handed him the folder. “You find her payroll receipts and what information I have.”

“Bingo!” He beamed that ‘shit-that-was-too-easy’ kind of grin as he quickly scanned the file. “Is it alright if I use your phone, ma’am?”

It didn’t take him long to get Cecil on the line. He might have been a rookie, but he had a knack for being where he was supposed to me. “Hey kid, do me a favor and run a check on Molly Smith. SS number . . . Got it? Yah, I’ll hold.”

Jack looked up with the phone tucked under this chin. He had pen and paper on his lap and the sound of hope in his voice as he continued to pursue his line of questioning. “It says here you paid her fifty dollars a week in cash, is that right?”

“Yes detective, that was her weekly pay and I pay all my employees in cash, always have.”

“In Cash?” Jack repeated in disbelief. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. You keep that kind of money in the house?”

“I do, Mr. Murphy. Is that a problem?”

“Well no, but that’s what banks are for, right . . . to cash checks?”

“My employees prefer the convenience, detective.”

“Yes, I can believe that,” Jack shook his head, sighed and thought to himself, “only on Slade Street.”

“Well then, tell me Mrs. Kline, did she live here, in the household with you?”

“Not inside the house, detective. I’ve a converted flat in the basement I provide. It has a separate entrance.”

“Did she leave anything behind?”

“Nothing detective, not one thing.”

“Did she happen to mention where she might be going? Where she might be found?”

“No, detective. She just said she was leaving. I paid her what was due and she packed up and left. She was a good worker and I was concerned, but it’s not my business to pry into the affairs of my employees, Detective Murphy.”

“Huh, is that so.” Jack quickly searched his memory trying to think of one woman he had ever known who wouldn’t have been the least bit curious. It seemed almost opposed to a woman’s nature to ask no questions whatsoever. “Then I suppose you did a background check, checked references, things like that. May I see it?”

“I’m sorry, detective; I didn’t feel a check was necessary. She seemed very nice and I hired her. Is that against the law?”

“No ma’am, suppose not . . .” Jack paused wondering whether a woman this savvy could really be that dumb.

“Or was she just playing the dummy for her own good?” he wondered. “Well then, have you any names? Parents, grandparents, siblings, she might have mentioned?”

“No, detective, she hadn’t mentioned any I’m aware of.”

“Was there anyone she had frequent association with, friends, neighbors . . .”

“Rose my cook comes to mind. As for Mr. McGee the gardener I’m not so sure. Molly had a thing about colored people, but you might want to ask.”

“I’ll need to speak with them.”

“Rose is here, you can speak with her when you like. Mr. McGee is off today. He’ll be here tomorrow after 6 a.m.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. Now, did she leave behind any mail, letters of any sort?”

“No, detective, I don’t recall her having received mail at this address.”

“Nothing? Well now, tell me Mrs. Kline, why do you suppose a guy like me might find that rather odd? Maybe even a bit suspicious, if you get my meaning. Do you know of any reason she’d want to hide things from you?”

“No detective. As you know it’s not at all uncommon for those with transitory status to use general delivery. Although I will admit, she did seem to me rather selective in what she revealed, and why. However, since we women have so few arrows in our quiver, I think it’s only natural she’d want to make the best use of what she had.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning for a woman living alone, information is a weapon that can work for or against you. So being selective about what you want people to know, or not know, or think they know can be a prudent tool in that regard.”

“I see. Kind of like what my Ma used to call, ‘little white lies.’”

“Well detective I don’t see any reason why Molly would need to lie to me or anyone else. At least not as you think of it. Let’s just call it a woman’s prerogative, shall we.”

“Women!” he muttered to himself. “Only a woman could liken a lie to an inalienable right.”

It was on that note that he again heard Cecil on the other end of the line, “Got it, boss!”

“Okay boy, I’m listening,” Jack flashed a grim the Cheshire cat would have envied.

“It says here, Molly Smith, address 1290 Lincoln Boulevard, West Chester.”

“Bingo!” His eyes lit up. “Got a line on a phone number?”

“Negative boss. Just the address, but it shouldn’t be too hard to look up.”

“Yeah, well, why don’t you dig it up for me and let me have it!”

“Yeah, sure, I’ve got it for yah, right here! It’s listed in the Yellow pages under Memorial Cemetery, West Chester, date of death, March 3rd, 1959.”

“Ahhh . . . okay wise-guy, I got it!” Jack turned from elated to pissed-off with a turn of his lips. “All you had to do was say it was bogus, shit-head. Now, why don’t you run off and find yourself a nose to match that fat lip I’m going to tag you with, you moron!“ He slams down the phone, “Ma’am, can you please show me her room, or flat or wherever you freaking call it!”

Jack was regretting his bad luck. Spike however was totally pissed-off for being made to look like a fool. While the detective in him searched Molly’s room and found nothing. The room was spotless, thoroughly cleaned by Rose and given a fresh coat of paint by a handyman. “Anything of hers you’ve stored elsewhere in the house?”

“No, she took everything with her. She didn’t have all that much to take.”

“She left by taxi then, I presume?”

“I suppose so, Mr. Murphy, but honestly I can’t recall even bothering to look.”

“Huh!” Jack grunted sounding not at all convinced. It sounded a bit like her faded recollection of this innocuous fact might not be a bit too convenient. This was a girl she supposedly liked and had hired her without checking her background. A good employee, one she hated to lose. Who worked in her house for almost two years, yet knew virtually nothing about. A girl who simply walked out the front door carrying all her worldly possessions in her hand and she didn’t “bother” to look out to see her leave? “Mind if I look around?”

“Well, no, but it might help if I knew what you were looking for.”

Jack crooked a smiled, while the detective glared intently into her eyes for clues to what she might be hiding. Spike did the talking. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe kick the dirt around out back. Maybe check the attic, look behind the draperies, that sort of thing.”

“What is it you hope to find, detective.” She replied as casually as asking when she might be allowed to return to her knitting.

He had just been testing the waters to assess the temperature of her response. Fear is not always the easiest thing to conceal, especially for a woman with no experience with this sort of thing. It was a little like trying to hide an elephant in a broom closet, but he saw no evidence of that. If she had a body buried out back, she played a very cool hand. “Yes, well then, I suppose I should speak with Rose, the cook.”

Katherine brought Jack into the kitchen begging a moment of Rose’s time. He had come from a working class family himself, so he knew to be respectful. He even sat down as she spoke so as not to come off as brash or hard-nosed. Women of Rose’s sort usually weren’t afraid to push back. Not that it did him any good. Rose was not about to be lulled into anything, and her posture and tone of voice said as much.

Rose could imagine any number of difficulties Molly might have gotten into. Why not, she was a problem child. All the same she wanted it clear from the start she was not a busybody. At least that’s what she told our detective when he asked her about Molly. “I have a key for the kitchen back door, come to prepare the meals and leave. I know my place Mister, and it ain’t being a busybody with my nose stuck in all the wrong places. Have I made myself clear, young man?”

Jack had to admire her pluck, and with the track rules set he played by her rules. Careful to keep Spike under wraps, he listened respectfully with the patience of a monk on retreat as she described Molly as a friend, but rather incompetent employee. “A gift horse,” is what Rose had called her job. Something Molly was too young and inexperienced to understand. A girl in need of a good husband to protect her from her own devises.

Rose had coughed up a bit more than her opinions over the course of her monologue. Mostly about Katherine who he seemed just as interested in as Molly. Though oddly, she didn’t say a word about Gerald. It wasn’t that the poor boy wasn’t in her thoughts and she had more than one opportunity to bring his name up. She simply saw no reason to drag his name through the muck. Besides, the detective had to know Gerald worked for Katherine as well. Katherine would have told him, and if he had an interest in Gerald, a man this thorough would surely have asked.

He hadn’t found the day a complete loss. He had learned she wasn’t a disgruntled employee, nor was she the type to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. Plus with only fifty dollars in her purse she couldn’t have gotten far. It’s not easy planning the great escape on that kind of money. That is unless she had a stash of cash no one knew about hidden under the pillow, and he certainly saw no evidence of that.

All of it was useful information, although for whatever good it did, it hardly seemed worth the cost of the liquor he bought on the way home. “Oh well,” he thought to himself after taking one long hard swallow. “This was just one of those cases where nothing seemed to want to go my way.”
 
 
Scene IV: The Fly on the Wall
 
 
Rose opened the back door to let the delivery man in. He set the bundles of freshly laundered linens on the kitchen table then left leaving Rose to the business of sorting. With the evening brisket and dumplings set in the oven, she separated the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom items into three neatly folded stacks. Picking up the stack of towels destine for the upstairs closet she stepped out of the kitchen to put them away.

It was just another of her frequent visits she now took throughout the house. Impromptu visits, chores she had voluntarily taken on so Katherine would grow accustom to her plodding about. She did little to disguise the fact she was there, although out of respect for their privacy she did try to blend in. Which it turned out wasn’t really all that difficult to do — even for an old woman with two lame hoofed feet. She simply made her visits unannounced and remained quietly at a distance so as not to disturb or disrupt.

The tact turned out to work pretty darn well for some odd reason. If not surprisingly so, given how obsessive Katherine had been in the past about her privacy. Whether or not Katherine was truly that inattentive or simply making the accommodation Rose really didn’t know. Whatever the reason, Rose now found herself free to wander about when and where she chose. Giving her greater access, and like a fly on the wall the opportunity to peer into their lives.

She found the downstairs quiet, though she looked through the rooms regardless. Hoping to find them as she frequently did reading or knitting or learning the ways of fashion and “belle maniá¨res.” All part of haut culture she supposed. Something Katherine insisted she practice the intricacies of quite often.

She continued on up the stairs with her stack of towels heading for the hallway closet. When she got there she found it quiet upstairs as well. That is, except for the sound of running water in the bathroom at the end of the hall. The bathroom was some distance away from where she stood, but not so distance that she couldn’t hear Katherine and Amelia inside sharing the bath.

She had just opened the closet’s twin louvered doors and set the towels on the shelf when the bathroom door opened. Hidden behind one wing of the louvered door she turned to peer between the slats and saw Katherine heading toward her room. Obviously she didn’t know Rose was there, hiding in plain sight. So close yet so far from her thoughts. Just like the thief had done to her.

She was wearing Molly’s rubber gloves and apron to protect her black dress. Then again, it didn’t appear as thought she had been scrubbing the tile. Rose could tell that because in her haste Katherine had left the bathroom door open and instead of the smell of disinfectant an overly-rich floral scent spilled out into the hallway. The dizzying scent as thick as a mist saturated everything, and at its source, Amelia, sitting in the tub shaving her legs. Rose watched as she finished one leg and then propped up the next on the rim of the tub.

She felt shamefully like a peeping tom to tell the truth. Standing there watching the girl extend then point her red painted toes out from the opaque white of the bubbling bathwater before commencing to shave. Her eyes fixed on each stroke, taking great care to insure a gentle and smooth glide of the pink razor along the length of her upwardly extended calf before starting anew.

She knew she shouldn’t be looking in on such a private personal moment. There was nothing right or noble in all this peeping-tom business. Nor did she think too highly of herself for doing so and thought to pull away. Something she wanted to do and would have done if not for the fact that this was the first time she’d ever seen her without her mother standing between.

She felt rather encouraged by what she saw as well. Amelia appeared so completely at ease. Much like a child quite used to being watched over, Katherine’s help with her bath still an everyday sort of thing. “Quite a relationship,” Rose thought. “Not many girls her age were as candid with their mothers.”

Moments later Amelia was rubbing the length of her long slender legs with baby oil just as Katherine reappeared from her room. In one hand she carried a red rubber-latex fountain bag. In her the other hand, a length of tubing attached to what must have been a nozzle, of sorts. Certainly nothing she was familiar with, and in terms of shape and size she wouldn’t have thought it suitable for the purpose at all.

The door remained open long enough to catch the barest glimpse of Amelia rise up, turn about and rest her hands on the rim of the tub. Just as Katherine had asked her to do before the door closed behind.

“Well,” she thought to herself, “perhaps it’s something modern. These were the 60’s after all, Sputnik and all that. The ladies these days used new things. Everything was now streamlined, disposable and easy to use.” Not like the crude but efficient method she still used at home.

         “Only The Lonely,” Roy Orbison, Monument Records,  © 1960.

         “Annie Hall,” TM & C @ 1977, United Artists Pictures, lic. MGM.
 
 
Acknowledgment: I would like to gratefully acknowledge cs. for her editorial support, guidance and infinite wisdom, all dispensed with a heart as large as her titanic talent. Thank you cs, you represent all the best our community has to offer. (*_*)

 ©2008 by josie. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.

xxx

Murphy's Law Revised Part II: Scenes V-X By Josie “Murphy understood the law and knew justice. He also knew that the two were often not the same. To catch the bad guy and win a confession you had to be willing to step outside the box and take chances. That’s what made him a great cop. But that didn’t give him the right to take the law in his own hands. All he had to do was have a boy examined to confirm his true gender and now his mistake was going to cost him. Maybe his job? Maybe a demotion? But then nothing in this case was turning out like it should. He should have seen this coming. He should have known that you can test the odds and you can test your resolve, but never pit your luck against Murphy’s Law. Because sure as the devil will get his due, anything that can go wrong, will go wrong!”

Originally written in 2007, Revised and Reposted 2009.
 
All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 

 
 
Scene V: The Search for Clues
 
 
The next morning Jack went back to Katherine’s to see Willy McGee the gardener. Protocol would have him alert Katherine of his presence so she could make the introduction. However, he didn’t stand much on protocol. He wasn’t the type. So he got out of his car and sought out the path leading to the back of the house where he hoped to meet Mr. McGee on his own terms.

On his way to the gate he spotted the mailman. He had a stack of letters in his hand and was making his way toward Katherine’s mailbox. Jack gave him a smile in passing, said “good morning” then stopped, back pedaled, and presented his badge.

“I’m with NYPD and if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to have a look at the mail you’re about to deliver to the Kline residence.”

“Well, yes officer. I know I’ve some items here to deliver to that residence, but I haven’t separated it out as yet.” To emphasized his point, he held up the large stack of letters he held in his hand. “There are letters in this stack for other houses on this block as well, officer!”

The postman seemed thoroughly versed in the responsibilities of his job, not to exclude his legal obligations. The need for court orders and such before he could hand over the mail to anyone other than to whom it was intended was something Jack understood as well. Then again, Jack didn’t stand much on protocol and made that quite clear from the start.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to ask you to do anything outside what the law permits. On the other hand, heaven forbid something bad should happen that could have been prevented, if only . . ,” he paused, crooked a smile and looked him in the eye. “Well now, that wouldn’t look too good on the resume, would it? So if you would kindly separate them for me I would be extraordinarily grateful.”

“Yeah, sure, give me a moment,” he reluctantly agreed, although still rather hesitant and constantly looking around to see if anyone was watching. He seemed rather intimidated by the whole process too. His actions where unnecessarily hurried, and Jack spotted a slight tremble of the hands. So it came as no surprise when shortly after he dropped the whole lot onto the ground.

He stooped to help the mailman pick them up, latching on to one he thought would surely be added to the stack destined for Katherine’s address. The letter was addressed to a Miss A. Stanton. It was from Amherst Girl’s Preparatory, and obviously destined for Amelia, her daughter. Apparently she had been registered at the school under her mother’s maiden name. While he found nothing unusual in that, he did notice that the house number was wrong.

A few moments later the postman handed him 8 letters. Bills of one sort or another all addressed to Katherine Kline, but the one addressed to Miss A. Stanton was not in the stack. “Is this all?”

“Yes, detective.”

“What about the one addressed to Miss A. Stanton?”

“Look officer, you asked to see all the mail addressed to the Kline residence. I showed it to you,” he sounded rather irate, and to Jack, a bit too uppity for his liking. “If you are now widening your request I’m afraid you’ll have to go through proper channels. I’m certain the Post Master will be happy to accommodate whereas I can not. So if you’ll excuse me . . .” he concluded, then snatched the letters out of Jack’s hands before continuing his work.

Spike would have liked to tag the guy with a fat lip, but Jack had seen enough to know there were no letters addressed to Molly in that stack of mail. That’s all he wanted to know. “Obviously Amelia won’t be getting her letter thanks to that mousy, egomaniacal little bureaucrat,” he chuckled to himself as he again made his way around back of the house and into the garden, the masterwork of Willie’s creation.

The garden was a large expanse with flowers growing like thicket all around the perimeter in a kaleidoscope of colors. Tall maples towered over the yard, the lush foliage providing the much needed shade from the hot summer sun. In the center of the yard there was a lawn with lounge chairs scattered about for people to relax and enjoy the beauty of the finest garden in all of Brooklyn. Off to the right and closest to the kitchen window there was a small tool shed. Built to look like the house, it had a faux antebellum façade, shingled roof and lattice windows painted to look the same.

He found Willie inside the tool shed sharpening the tip of a shovel. “Hello! Mr. McGee, I’m detective Jack Murphy with NYPD and need to ask you some questions.”

“Yes sir,” Willie freed one hand from the shovel to offer to Jack.

Jack took a moment to size the man up. He looked every bit as strong as his powerful grip. The size of a redwood, he looked to be a menacing sort. The kind it would take an anvil to topple, though his eyes and his smile read something else. Not a lot of smarts, but smart enough to know both the mighty redwood and the most delicate of flowers he nurtured held equal value under god’s watchful eye.

“It’s about the girl Molly who used to work for Katherine Kline. I think you knew her as Molly Smith, is that right?”

“No sir, just Molly. Didn’t rightly know her. Just saw her around some, when she was going in and out. You see, she weren’t the type to be talkin’ to no colored folk, if you get my meaning, officer.”

“Yeah, I got’cha. Don’t take no offense. Some folks are just like that.”

“No offense taken, officer,” he replied with a reassuring smile. “We’s all god’s children, an’ ol’Willie learnt long ago to accept the good n’ the bad.”

“So I guess you didn’t socialize none? Like ask her where she was from or anything like that?”

“No, don’t reckon I did.”

“Have you spoken to Mrs. Kline about her leaving?”

“No, the misses business be her own. She don’t speak much to me personally, and don’t come back here much neither. But I heard from Miss Rose and I told her to tell Mrs. Katherine ‘her Willie’ is here to help if she be needin’ any.”

“Her Willie!” Jack had to smile. It was a rare thing to meet anyone, man of color or not as down to earth. Not in this day and age. Not in this city.

Jack turned away and again looked out into the garden. “You’re pretty good at this gardening business. Been at it long?”

“Yes Sir, most of my life. Mr. Kline, her late husband done hire me 10 years back. I come here with plenty of experience though. There weren’t much here back then. I think it looks right nice now. Least I be trying my best.”

Jack spotted a stainless steel kitchen knife sitting on a work bench just inside the door. He picked it up and fiddled with it as he thought to ask him, “You said you saw Molly come and go, right?”

“Oh, I seen her about when she was working here. Some, anyway, but like I said, she didn’t speak none.”

“So you never saw her with anyone else? Anyone ever come to visit, that sort of thing?”

“No sir, just her is all I be rememberin’.”

He put down the knife and turned again toward Willie. “Pretty fancy cutlery for using in a garden, don’t yeah think?”

“Sure is,” Willy sheepishly replied. “I used it to cut some rose slips a while back an’ nicked the blade. See here,” he added as he picked up the knife to show Jack the notch. “Wife says since I ruined it I kin keep it.”

“That don’t sound much like you, Willie,” Jack chuckled, “pissin’ off the ol’ lady like that.”

“Weren’t my fault. I done dropped it when was cuttin’ them slips. I reckon it was kinda brittle on account of the cold.”

“You don’t say,” Jack mumbled as he examined the notch. “Maybe next time you should consider using something a bit more substantial. Like that machete you have there hanging up on the wall.”

“What?” Willie looked up to see where he was pointing.

“Something to consider,” Jack followed. “I once saw a body that had been cut clean through the chest cavity, bone and all, and the machete the bad guy had used hadn’t a single scratch.” Willie stared at him. His eyes were wide and his jaw slackened as if too dumbfounded to utter a word.

“Yup, a fella on the lower eastside was pissed off because his ol’lady kept nagging about ruining her best carving knife.”

Willie recoiled, thought for a long moment, then slowly the corners of his mouth turned up and his eyes grew bright. “Aaaah, Officer Murphy, you’re just pullin’ my leg. I gets it!” Willie beamed, only now coming to the realization of what the jib was all about.

Jack was making fun, but in a pointed way. Again he was just testing the waters. He knew no one could have planted a body in that yard without Willie knowing. That is, unless he hadn’t been telling the truth about he had nicked that blade, and he saw no evidence of that.

“Well then, I’ll leave you to your work. Thanks for your help,” he concluded the interview as he took his hand and said his good-byes. A moment later he was back in his car heading for the Niles Street Bar, and again, cursing his bad luck.

Unfortunately, he didn’t fare well there either. Not from a lack of those eager to cooperate, but from what he was able to glean from the interviews. Frank, Charlie, Milton and Nick were there. To a one they were filled to overflowing with rye whiskey, but not drunk. If they were, they certainly knew how to have a good time without showing it. They all had fond memories of Molly as well, and primed by all the liquor, they were more than happy to share every squalid detail.

Aside from the fact she was the apple of their collective eye and quite free with the wares, no one knew anymore about her. It was also obvious that no one had motive to “do in” the gift that kept on giving. Nor was the personal distance they kept between Molly and themselves all that unusual. These guys didn’t come here looking for the future mother of their children. Likewise Molly wasn’t the type who’d want to become one.

That is except for Charlie who had a decidedly different take on Molly. The poor guy had apparently acquired quite an attachment to the girl. At least that seemed the general consensus. Something that Charlie willing owned up to, and whenever needed, became her stalwart defender. As he had frequent opportunity to do, especially after Milton rattled off a few derogatory remarks about her performance between the sheets. It earned Milton a seat on the floor and skewed the symmetry of his pretty, Fabian-like face a bit to the lopsided.

He left the Nile Street bar without much more under his belt. Not a complete waste of time but close. He did get the name of a cabbie however. A useful tip that led to a man who could be in possession of a lot of useful information. He was a rather easy fellow to fine too. His name was Romano Salazar. A man Jack knew in a previous incarnation as a petty thief. He was one of them want-a-be hipsters who liked to think of himself as the incarnation of the late James Dean - hair, blue Jeans, t-shirt and all. He found him sitting in his cab reading a paper parked on Slade Street awaiting a call from dispatch.

“Hey Sally,” Jack said as he slipped into the back seat of the parked cab. “I need a word with you.”

If Romano’s nose hadn’t been buried in the paper he might have had time to spot him sneaking up. He might have even had time to pull out before he could get in the cab. In truth, he would have rather had a guy with an ax jump in the back then this guy. At least he wasn’t likely to be blindsided. Something he felt coming the moment he heard the name “Sally.”

“That’s Salazar, Murphy!”

“Is that what they called you in Lockup, big guy? Salazar? I heard most nights it was Sally! I hear they still ask about you,” Jack chuckled.

“Meters running, Lieutenant,” he replied as he pushed up the handle, triggering the meter.

“Better turn that thing off pronto, big fella, before I run a check with your parole officer to see how well you’ve been wiping your nose.”

“Then make it quick,” he slapped down on the handle, “’cause times money, Murphy.”

“Yah, right . . .! I’m looking for some information about a frequent pick-up of yours named Molly. She lived just down the block there, at 30401. You know, that big place over there you seem to have in your sights.”

Romano picked up on the snide innuendo and wasn’t too happy with the guy at the moment. “See the checkered curb and the sign right there, Murphy? It says Checkered Cab parking. This here is my stop. I provide service for the whole upper east side of Slade Street and you can find me here 7 days a week. So I ain’t casing no joint and you can talk all you want to my parole officer for all I care. My nose is clean!”

Romano knew better than to be flippant with the guy. He wasn’t the type who took well to a man putting up a front. Once he latched on to you it was like having a Pit Bull gnawing at your leg and that was the last thing he needed. Only this guy Murphy had a way of getting under a guys skin. “Yeah, I picked her up, took her to Niles Street and Tommy’s Bar more times than I can count. And no, I ain’t seen her, and no, I don’t know anything about her except she thought her boss was a loon . . . Anything else, Murphy?”

“Do you know her last name, where she’s from?”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, dumb ass, I need a last name!”

“Nope! Called her ‘good-time Molly’ and she was just fine with that. For all I know, she might as well have fallen down from outer space. As flighty as she was, I’d say that’s close to the truth.”

“You pick her up the night she left?”

“Well now, I don’t know when she left. I just stopped seeing her around, but I don’t recall ever picking her up at night, always during the day. I suppose she was busy being picked up by someone else down at the Niles Street Bar most nights.”

“Who would have been working that night?”

“Beats me, go ask dispatch.”

“I’m on it, big guy!” Jack exaggerated the “big guy,” finding him a bit too uppity for his liking.

“So I take it the girl liked to socialize a lot?”

“Socialize?” Romano smirked. “Yeah, I guess you could say she was the outgoing type.”

“A lot of takers then I presume?”

“Don’t know, wasn’t looking.”

“You weren’t? Odd. I hear she was quite a looker.”

“Yeah,” Romano chuckled, “’bout as fine as they come, detective.”

“Hmmm, sounds a bit out of your league, Sally boy.”

“Sheesh! Nobody was out of that girl’s league so long as your knuckles didn’t drag on the ground.”

“Huh, then I guess that leaves you out. Bet’cha did some talkin’ though. You know, about the weather, that sort’a thing?”

“Some.”

“Yeah, like what about?”

“Nothing! Just about which way she was heading.”

“Huh! Well she probably preferred men who liked the ride on top, if you be getting my meaning.”

“No detective, don’t reckon I do.”

“Well then, let’s try something even a moron can understand. Did yah ever take her anywhere else?”

From the pause that followed his question he felt a seismic shift in his fortunes. “Hu, big guy, ever take her shoppin’ or to someone’s house . . . anything like that?”

“Well . . . yeah, sure, once or twice I made a trip to the Waverly district on a Saturday. I asked if she wanted me to wait around, but she said she’d be a couple of hours. So I didn’t.”

“What stores did she shop at?”

“Don’t know, Murphy, like I told you, I didn’t wait around.”

“Yeah, okay wise guy. I’ll try not to accidentally bump into Hazelton, your parole officer the next time I need a quota to fill. Got me, bud?” Jack smiled as he opened the rear door, but before he stepped out a final thought occurred to him and he stopped to ask what had come to mind. “You ever pick up her employer, Katherine Kline?”

“Yeah, sure, plenty of times. She ain’t got a limo and uses the cab for everything. Tips pretty well too.”

“How about her daughter?”

“Nope!”

“How about the two of them together, a mother-daughter outing, shopping trip, visit to the doctor’s office, that sort of thing?”

“Nope!”

“Yeah, right! Listen wise guy, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. Think I should haul your ass in and let you stew in a cell with your old friend from French Lick? Maybe it might help refresh your memory. Think that might help, big fella?”

“No need, Murphy.”

“Why not?”

“Because as far as I know she ain’t got no kids. Besides, if there were kids living there don’t you think I would have seen them about? Or Molly would have mentioned that? Sorry, Murphy, if a kid was living there, I think I’d know it!”

“Are you sure?”

“Tell me, detective. Is hard of hearing a problem with all you flatfeet, or just you?”
 
 
Scene VI: Amelia’s Willie
 
 
The weather in the middle of a Brooklyn September has a way of making you feel uncomfortable in your own skin. The good lord did not intend clothes to be worn in the summer, in the City. That’s how Rose felt as she gulped down a large glass of ice tea. Then thinking of Katherine and Amelia, she picked up some glasses and carried the pitcher out into the family room where she expected to fine them spending their afternoon.

Instead she found the door leading out into the backyard open and Katherine sitting outside on a lounge while Amelia worked beside Mr. McGee. Amelia was standing at the far end of the yard alongside Willie with water hose in one hand and a spade in the other. Dressed in pink Pedal Pushers and sneakers, she looked very into her work.

It seemed Willie’s kind offer of help had struck a cord with Katherine. Now hardly a day went by without Amelia spending an hour or two out in the garden alongside Mr. McGee. Of course she was not alone. Katherine was always there, though she still kept a personal distance between herself and Mr. McGee.

Still it did seem to Rose to be a bit odd. It wasn’t like she’d ever done this sort of thing before. Neither alone nor with Gerald, thanks to the premium she placed on her personal privacy. It was as though they had come to some sort of mutual understanding whereby Amelia could ply her wears out in the real world while Katherine, absent only the opera glasses, could sit back and observe the theater undisturbed from the distance.

Amelia seemed pleased. Not just for having the opportunity to work in the garden, but for the company of Mr. McGee as well. Actually she seemed to be monopolizing much of his time which he didn’t seem to mind at all. In no time at all they had grown quite close. Quite often Rose would see Amelia wrapping an arm about his waist, and in turn, he’d wrap his arm about hers and hold her close to his side.

From all appearances it seemed “Katherine’s Willie” had suddenly become “Amelia’s Willie,” something she was pleased to see. Mr. McGee was a loyal employee, but more importantly, he was a fine person and a man who couldn’t give enough of himself. So the work and the company couldn’t help to benefit Amelia, perhaps she might even grow up some. Maybe learn a little about being in the company of men as well. Certainly couldn’t hurt!

So not wanting to disturb she set the tea down on a nearby table then headed back to the kitchen, leaving Amelia to “her Willie.”
 
 
Scene VII: Love Letters
 
 
It was early Saturday mornings and Romano was yet to get a call. He had already finished his morning coffee and sat reading a letter as he waited for the first calls to roll in from dispatch. The letter was a sweet little ditty in a pink envelop addressed to “Sally,” cab 1604, in care of the Checkered Cab Company. It was sent from Katherine’s Slade Street address and signed Amelia.

Romano sat behind the wheel going over the single page letter for the eighth time. Periodically he’d look up toward Katherine’s home located down the street and then look down again at the letter trying to make sense of it. From all outward appearances it didn’t look like it could have been written by Katherine. The script was in block letters — all caps! Along with the letter there was a dried pink carnation pressed flat between the fold of the page. Like something a kid would do, and with all the hearts and flowers drawn on the back, obviously from a kid with a big infatuation.

Of course he was dead certain there were no kids living there. It was just like he told Murphy, “If there was a kid living there, don’t yeah think I would know?” Besides, he had been casing the place for the past 8 months and knew everything there was to know about the place. In point of fact he was just about to pull off the job when Murphy showed up asking questions about Molly.

With Murphy snooping around there was no way he could touch it now. It was a pity too, because it would have been easy pickings. Just the same the allure was there. The “oodles” of cash Molly had told him she kept stashed away in the office hadn’t vanished, but unless she invited him in to help himself to the money, it wasn’t going to happen now.

He was a bit frustrated and angry at himself for having waited so long. No doubt he had missed a once in a lifetime opportunity. He was mulling over that thought and fidgeting with the letter when he happened to look up and saw Katherine walking out of her home. He watched closely, looking to pick up on a glance or a gesture no matter how slight in his direction.

There was nothing to see of course. That is, other than a woman in her housecoat looking for the morning paper, finding it in the hedge row then swiftly returning to the house. “Damn, this couldn’t be from her, could it?” he mumbled to himself.

“A rich, classy lady like that . . . could she really be that crazy?” he pondered the uncertainty. “Is she really the ‘loon’ Molly said she was?”

By the looks of the letter in his hand it appeared she was all that and more. One thing was dead certain. Whoever wrote it knew the inner layout of the house to a tee. The person not only knew enough to specify which bedroom window he should keep an eye on, but what time of night the window would be opened and the name of the song she wanted him to hear.

Romano shook his head and sneered as if suddenly realizing this was just some sort of elaborate hoax. It had to be. Nobody was that crazy. If not, then it was some sort of scheme to entrap him. Perhaps she had her suspicions and was trying to draw him out. Or perhaps Molly had inadvertently tipped her off and now the police themselves were involved, Jack Murphy the chief architect.

Then again, maybe this was the invitation inside he had been hoping for. Maybe she really had gone bananas. It’s possible. Living all alone in a big house like that can play tricks on the mind. He’d seen that sort of thing happen before. Or perhaps she was just lonely, liked what she saw and came up with this crazy scheme because she didn’t know how else to get his attention. Those were all possibilities, albeit not likely.

Still there is no law broken in perusing a romance. Plus he did have the letter - the invite! Police sting or not, that alone should be enough to cover his ass if the need arose. If it was a ploy to sucker him in, it was a sloppy one. So what the heck! The letter states she’s nineteen. Why not play along, sniff it out and see what the game is.

Who knows, he might just get lucky. Maybe in a few months he might find himself married to the “eccentric ol’biddy,” and end up with all the loot for himself. If not, if she just wants to play a bit of back seat boogie, well, he could live with that. Blackmail could be a lucrative game too.

So he opened up his log book, tore out the last page and began his reply:
 
 

For some reason those words kept running through his head. Not that he believed the guy. Romano was as slime ball from the word go. All the same it was a bold statement and to give him the benefit of the doubt he placed a call to Amherst Girl’s Preparatory. That was the school Katherine’s daughter supposedly attended and was told that indeed, Amelia Stanton had been a student there.

Okay, so, Romano had been telling the truth. He wouldn’t have known about her because she had been away at school, and before that, who knows. That eased his mind some, but for what it was worth, it still got him no closer to finding Molly. So after lunch he stepped away from his desk, put on his hat and again headed out to pick up on her trail.

This time it was a small fashion boutique on Waverly Street. He had called around to different shops to see who might carry the “Parisian Fair” brand name women’s apparel. Only one was found; Beverly’s, a small shop offering exclusive off-brands at affordable prices. Or at least that’s what the gentleman who owned the shop had told him.

Tom Martin and his wife Gloria worked the business themselves with the help of one sales girl. Unfortunately the girl didn’t work there any longer and she had been the one who had sold the dress.

“You say your employee sold the dress and she paid in cash?”

“Yes, detective,” Gloria Martin smartly offered in response.

“Then I presume that means neither your husband nor yourself saw the girl who bought it, or did you?”

“No detective, neither my husband nor myself were in the store at the time.”

“Do you know where I can speak with this girl, Carla, the girl who sold it?”

“No, she didn’t say were she was going when she quit, and I haven’t seen her around. However I still have all her personal information if you’re interested.”

As he waited for the lady to retrieve the much needed information Jack held the red dress out between himself and Tom Martin. “What’cha think, Tom. Do you think you can describe the girl who fits in this dress?”

Tom stepped back, put his hand to his chin and crooked his head. “Well, ahm, I’d say she’s not tall. Say 5-7’ish, young, in her 20’s . . . or 30’s if she’s a venturous sort. 36 hips, 24 about the waist, bosomy, maybe a 37, no, 38 - no doubt a woman who could wear it.”

“Hmmm, sounds like a pretty lil’gal,” Jack purred.

“Yah, I’d say that. I don’t think you’d find a girl without a lot of confidence wearing something like that.”

“Tom, where I come from we call that a prick tease, big guy. Tell me, how much does a thing like this cost?”

“It was priced at 129.95, but anywhere else that style and that quality could have set you back 200.00 plus easily.”

“Affordable, huh? I guess I’m in the wrong business. Think you could afford something like this on a maid’s salary, Tom?” Tom Martin didn’t have time to answer before his wife returned with the information Jack sought.

“Well, thank you both for your time.” He turned to leave, but before he did he stopped to re-ask Tom that still unanswered question.

“About this girl you described for me, Tom. The great looking gal who makes 50 bucks a week as a household maid. Does she sound like the kind of girl who would disappear and leave something like this behind?”

“I don’t think any woman would detective.”

“I don’t either.” He said as he exited, again cursing his bad luck. Nothing seemed to be working his way on this case.
 
 
Scene IX: Only the Lonely
 
 
It was one of those rare September afternoons when the heavy summer air that hung over the city was swept away by a crisp southwest wind, dropping the heat and humidly down to habitable levels and making it a pleasant day to be outside. Rose had just stepped out onto the back porch to dust a throw rug and happened to spot Amelia and Willie making their way through the rose beds pulling out weeds on their hands and knees. They had been at it all afternoon long. The two working side-by-side while Katherine spent the day shopping.

Willie looked as though he was having as good a time as Amelia. He wasn’t by nature a jovial fellow, but she could tell Amelia’s playfulness wore well on the man. In truth, he was teasing her almost as much as she did him, and when she jumped up and sat on his back as a child might when seeking a pony ride, Willie was only to willing to oblige. He began baying like a horse and shuffled along on his hands and knees with Amelia riding her steed.

She knew it had to be killing his knees and thought to ask Amelia to leave the poor man alone. However before she could speak she heard the cab pull up in front. Knowing it would have been Katherine returning from an afternoon of shopping, she walked around front to see if she could help carry in what packages she might have with her.

When she got there she saw Katherine standing outside the cab with the cabbie who had come around to help her out of the car. She was fishing through her purse looking for the money to pay the man while at the same time, engaged in a very lively discussion.

Even after she paid the man the discussion remained quite animated, and at one point he had even put his hand on her shoulder as they spoke. Obviously she knew him, but something as personal as touching seemed highly inappropriate no matter the issue being discussed. All this came to an end however when they saw her approach. As if on cue the cabbie broke off the discussion, got back into his cab and drove off.

“Is everything alright, ma’am?” She asked while reaching to help Katherine with her bags.

“Oh yes, Rose, quite alright, thank you. It seems the young man thinks me beholden to a debt Molly had incurred over a year ago. Of course I assured him that he would never see a penny of that from me.”

Rose wasn’t surprised to hear about what Molly had done. If anything surprised her it was that the cab driver had waited this long to approach Katherine for the money. “It’s a good thing you did, ma’am. If not, who knows where the next demand might come from, or for however much.”

The incident stuck with Rose like excess baggage the remainder of her day, something left for her to unload later in a hot, sudsy tub. A nice long soak had a way of doing that to her, and the thought of that bath was very much on her mind later that night as she was preparing to go home. Actually she would already be halfway out the door if it hadn’t been for that song filtering in from the living room.

She knew the lyrics well enough. The pop tune had been playing seemingly non-stop all afternoon, as if Katherine or Amelia couldn’t get their fill of it. She didn’t know the song or the artist or why Katherine or Amelia need play the 45 record over and over. Normal she didn’t like that bebop-a-lula music so popular with the kids these days. If it wasn’t Rudy Vallee it was vulgar.

However, this song was different. The sound of it was heart-rendering, almost timeless and ageless. The harmony of violins with that souring operatic voice made the simple, repetitive lyrics sound like a call from heaven. Ruby Vallee could have not done better.

So with her coat on, her purse in one hand her keys in the other, she followed the melody. Telling herself it was only to say good night to Katherine before she left. It wasn’t something she normally did and she didn’t even know why she felt compelled to do so now. Maybe that’s why her unexpected appearance went unnoticed. She was standing behind the potted fern at the entrance, although not hiding and clearly in plain view. Just like a fly on the wall.

At first glance it appeared as though there was a man in the house. A man dressed in a white suit, Florsheim’s and tie waltzing with Amelia. When the couple spun around she saw that it was actually Katherine. Dressed in her husband’s white suit perhaps? She had her hair tied up in a tight bun at the back, the front slicked back with the sheen of Pomade in a very manly fashion. With Amelia’s arms looped around her neck they glided across the polished floor as man and woman. Each with a gaze fixed on the other.

The scope of this unusual scene was breathtaking, but it was the way Amelia chose to dress that placed it beyond belief. Her feet rode atop open toe vamps heeled so high she had to balance on the tips of her toes. Her black silk dress was snug fit and adorned with sewn in silvery spangles that refracted the overhead light. Both backless and sleeveless, it had a plunging v-neck that cut a canyon’s divide between her two plump breasts and was hemmed scandalously above the stocking tops. The sleek little black dress was not at all suited for her age, and rather reminiscent of a dress she had once seen Molly wearing.

It was bazaar and not a thing about it seemed rational or sane. At first she felt a bit angry about it. Thinking perhaps Katherine was using her authority to abuse and misguide her daughter. On the other hand she saw nothing in their actions that would indicate as much. Not in the way Amelia dreamily laid her head upon her mother’s bosom. Nor in the way she lifted her head up and kissed her dear mother on the lips. All of it coming from Amelia. Her actions as clear as the souring operatic voice that sang, “. . . maybe tomorrow, a new romance, no more sorrow, but that’s the change, UUU got’a take, if your lonely heart breaks, only the lonely.”

The purity of that voice, the clarity of her actions somehow rose above what she saw. Suddenly she didn’t look like a tawdry, misguided teen looking for a pick up in a Tenth Street bar. She looked serene, a young lady self-directed and in complete control. In truth, Rose couldn’t help but feel a bit envious of them. It was not unlike watching a movie. Where she found herself wishing she too could know the warm embrace of her leading man for just one moment in her life.

Rose wasn’t sure how long she stood there unmoved as the fern she stood beside. The 45 on the turntable had already played to the end, then automatically repeating several more times before she again thought of her own circumstance. She thought it odd she would suddenly feel afraid of being seen prying, and she probably wouldn’t have thought of it now had it not been for what happened next.

While they waltzed, Katherine had freed one hand from about her daughter’s waist so she could loosen her tie, unbutton her men’s white linen shirt and free a breast. A moment later Amelia put her mouth to her mother’s bosom, and much like an infant in need of nourishment began to suckle.

Rose slowly and quietly backed away, through the dark of the dinning room and into the kitchen. Again aware of her aching, swollen feet, she turned out the kitchen light and left for home.
 
 
Scene X: Gail Newton
 
 
Jack was walking the length of Waverly Street with nothing more than a verbal description of Molly. He was wandering into shops hoping to find someone who might have known her, or seen her about. He had been at it all morning and again, he was cursing his bad luck. This case was slowly getting under his skin, and for good reason.

He had been at it for more than three weeks and still hadn’t a single clue. That’s why he decided to hoof it out store by store. Something he definitely didn’t have the time, or the patience to do. Not with the back log of work piling up on his desk.

Fact is, other than this case he hadn’t worked on much of anything since Charlie first walked into his office. His last big case was over a month ago in which a scorned wife paid to have her two-timing husband done in. It was a complicated case, but it had taken half the resources he had already invested in this one and he found the bad guy in a week. Obviously, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see he was frittering away too much valuable time.

“And for what,” he tried to placate his sunken pride, “A girl who was probably doing just fine and doesn’t want to be found?”

Yes, Jack’s confidence was beginning to waver a bit, but not Spike’s. He wasn’t about to let it go. As he liked to tell himself, “I just need to find the right waters to fish.” An expression he had picked up from his father whenever his father was fishing for the truth about something he did as a young boy. “Then I’ll toss out the line and watch it unfurl with the truth tied to the end.”

It had taken him a long time to figure that one out, but he was never more grateful to his dad when he finally had. This tidbit of wisdom had served him well through the years. Just as he hoped it would now. After all, a life might well hang in the balance. “I’ll give it a couple more days,” he thought as he strolled into a delicatessen, asked his questions then bought himself a hot Pastrami on Rye.

He took a moment to eat the sandwich outside on the walk while he looked down the street. He still had 5 blocks to go and it was already getting late. Across the street and a couple of doors down was a beauty shop and thought to go there next. This would be his last try of the day. Maybe tomorrow he’s wake up smart and drop the thing altogether. The case was beginning to have that smell about it.

Of course his luck hadn’t been any better on Hyde Street earlier in the day. That morning he had taken Charlie down there to see a body in cold storage at the morgue. “The Deep Freeze” they called it, located next to the NYPD vehicle compound in an industrial area adjacent to the expressway. The unidentified body he had come to see was not Molly. She wasn’t even a brunette.

It did save him from having to make a special trip to the Checkered Cab Company however. The cab company was located in a garage next door to the Hyde Street morgue. Dispatch had located the cabbie he was looking for. The guy who was driving Sally’s Cab the night Molly had left. They called him in to speak with Jack, but again, his luck was no better.

Once again Romano had been on the up-and-up, but the guy who worked that late shift couldn’t have been any more the half-wit. His recall was so vague he scarcely remembered the call. His excuse? It was his first day on the job. While Jack thought it more likely that it was simply because the guy was about as scatterbrained as they come.

All the same he decided to call Hazelton, his parole officer, and asked what was up with Salazar. “Just checking in on Sally,” he had told him, and found out he was right about one thing. It seems Romano was a suspect in a string of recent burglaries.

He had other names on his list, but Romano Salazar was on top. In fact Hazelton had told him he was going to pick him up for questioning that very afternoon. So Jack felt lucky to have caught him before he did. “Listen, bud, do me a favor and hold up on this one. I’m following Sally on another case. Give me a few days on this and I’ll owe yah.”

Hazelton agreed, but nobody was doing anyone any favors. They both wanted the low-life locked up, but he didn’t want to stir up the pool, at least not yet. Granted he hadn’t learned a lot from Romano, but what little he did have to say appeared to have been on the level. Then again, he hadn’t found Molly yet either, and if anyone had the potential to “do in” the gift that kept on giving, this guy definitely fit the bill.

Of course that was all conjecture and he really didn’t want to get ahead of himself. Not with so many questions still left unanswered. “Heck, I still don’t even have a last name to put on the poor girl.”

Disappointed? Perhaps a bit, but definitely not defeated. “I know she’s out there somewhere,” he muttered, then with the furrowed brow of a determined man, “. . . I’ll find her.” The only question was, “Did she need his help?” On that thought he picked himself up, dusted himself off and headed toward the salon.

It was a small shop with only one woman having her hair done. The other hairdresser sat in the chair reading a magazine. That would have been Gail Newton, a slightly walleyed, but highly energetic red head working on a big wad of gum with a warm smile and a warmer welcome. “Hi yah Hon, what can I do for you today?”

“I’m here on police business and I’m hoping you might be able to help,” he replied as he flashed his badge. “I’m looking for a girl named Molly, 30 to 35, 5-6, 5-7 approximately 120 pounds, green eyes, brunette, worked as a maid down on Slade Street. She used to come in here to get her hair done,” he lied, hoping to convince her he knew more than he did.

“Molly, hmmm . . . Molly,” she said while scanning the floor beneath her feet as she searched her memory. “Not the kind of name you hear everyday. You’d think I’d remember it.”

From her appearance the woman looked as if she hadn’t a clue. “Just another waste of effort,” he thought as he mulled over in his mind all the wasted time he was putting into this case.

“Well . . . if it don’t ring a bell . . .”

“Hmmm, well, not recently,” Gail finally came alive, “but now that I think about it, there was this one girl who used to come in every once in a while way back when. Her name was Molly. Can’t remember her last name, but I still have last year’s appointment calendar. Wait a moment, let me check the office.”

Jack stood quietly and out of the way waiting for Gail’s return. He took the moment to look around and immediately picked up on the dead silence. He glanced toward the stylist and the woman having her hair done finding them frozen in place, as if mesmerized, watching and listening to every word of the conversation.

When they saw him returning their gaze they quickly turned away, hurriedly picking up where they had left off, acting rather nonchalant, as if they hadn’t taken the slightest notice of him or what was being said. “Women,” he thought. “There is truly something about their nature that would forever perplex mankind.”

He needed no other confirmation than the smells emanating from the place. With one twitch of the nostril he’d find himself overwhelmed by the rich flowery bouquet of talc’s and powders, sprays and shampoos. Then with another twitch of the nostril, the overwhelming odors of pungent chemicals and bleaches that made one wonder why women would want to torture themselves just to look pretty. It was on that thought that Gail again appeared.

“Sorry, it only says ‘Molly,’ but that was enough to jolt my memory,” her smile indicating how proud she was of that fact.

“As I recall her name was Carver. I remember that now because Carver is my sister-in-law’s maiden name, and she is quite a gardening enthusiast.” She beamed her pearly white. “Anyways, this Molly was always talking about the beautiful garden at the place where she worked. You know, that big place over on Slade Street with the big garden? But I haven’t seen the girl in a month of Sundays.”

Bingo!!!! “Molly Carver,” Jack almost tripped on his tongue, but just to make sure he had found the right Molly, he asked, “Not with a Brooklyn accent I hope?”

“Oh my gawd,” Gail sucked in her wind as if just hearing her mother had been hit by a bus. “Nothings happened to the sweet girl, has it?”

“No ma’am, leastwise nothing I’m certain of. I just need to speak with her. Do you know where I can find her?” Gail put her hand over her heart, heaved a huge sigh and then asked him to sit. So they could get personal over a nice long chat about Molly.

Gail Newton turned out to be a goldmine. She knew more about Molly than he could have possibly hoped to find. Then again, he supposed it only made sense. Wasn’t that why girls are willing to pay all that money to endure the suffering in a beauty shop? Of course they want to look pretty, but it’s the hour of chat about their personal lives that make it worth the while.

Thankfully, Molly was no exception, and spill her guts out to Gail she apparently did. Molly told her about growing up in a one-beauty-salon, Virginian town. A shop her mother owned and was the only beautician in town. Even more importantly, Molly had a son who was living with her!

“A son!” Now why hadn’t anyone bothered to tell him that very important fact? Not Katherine Kline, not Rose the cook, not Charlie her lover, not Romano the cabbie, not Willie the gardener, not anyone at the Niles Bar. How could they not know, especially Katherine. The oversight, to put it kindly, had to be intentional. The question was why?

A very important question, the answer to which he suspected would come to play in the final act of this unseemly drama. First however, he had something more important to pursue. He had to find Molly. That is, if she was still alive. Her safety had suddenly become an issue.

As to the motive he hadn’t a clue. Still, folks living on Slade Street just don’t turn up missing for no reason at all, and the thought of that grave in Katherine’s backyard was growing more ominous by the day. Maybe even a grave for two? That said, before he went digging up the backyard he had to follow out the trail first. To a Virginian woman who owned a hair salon by the last name Carver, and that was doable.

He leaned in and gave Gail a kiss on the cheek promising to call her when he found Molly. The next moment he was out the door and off to the station to track down Molly’s mother.

         “Only The Lonely,” Roy Orbison, Monument Records,  © 1960.

         “Annie Hall,” TM & C @ 1977, United Artists Pictures, lic. MGM.
 
 
Acknowledgment: I would like to gratefully acknowledge cs. for her editorial support, guidance and infinite wisdom, all dispensed with a heart as large as her titanic talent. Thank you cs, you represent all the best our community has to offer. (*_*)

 ©2008 by josie. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.

xxx

Murphy's Law Revised Part II: Scenes XI-XIX By Josie “Murphy understood the law and knew justice. He also knew that the two were often not the same. To catch the bad guy and win a confession, you had to be willing to step outside the box and take chances. That’s what made him a great cop. But that didn’t give him the right to take the law in his own hands. All he had to do was have a boy examined to confirm his true gender and now his mistake in handling the affair was going to cost him. Maybe his job? Maybe a demotion? But then nothing in this case was turning out like it should. He should have seen this coming. He should have known that you can test the odds and you can test your resolve, but never pit your luck against Murphy’s Law. Because sure as the devil will get his due, anything that can go wrong, will go wrong!”

Originally written in 2007, Revised and Reposted 2009.
 
All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
 

 
 
Scene XI: Willie’s Eager Helper
 
 
Summer in Brooklyn. It’s said you’ve got to go through hell before you can get to heaven. Well, Rose was earning her dues. She had a pie in the oven with 15 minutes left to bake and the temperature in the kitchen was soaring. It was so hot she thought it might get done quicker if she were to take it out and set it on top of the stove to finish baking. Her clothes were damp with perspiration and the air was so thick she felt it a struggle just to breathe.

She got up and went to the kitchen window to open it up and welcome what little difference it would make. Looking out in the yard she could see Mr. McGee still hard at work. Just that morning he had shown her a gunnysack full of Crocus, Watsonia and Iris bulbs he was ready to plant for the autumn bloom. She through then as she thought now, “that man is a devoted and tireless slave to his work.”

The heat didn’t seem to be bothering him as much as it did her. He was moving about quite vigorously though apparently it still was a problem for the poor fellow to get down on his knees. She knew because there was a lattice framed window on the side of the shed and she saw him working inside, hunched forward working with something at his feet.

Whatever he was doing she could see he was not working alone. Amelia was there to help. It was hard to tell exactly the work she was doing because the windowsill blocked the view of everything below the top of her head. If planting his bulbs was what he was preparing to do, she knew it was not easy work. It was an all hands and knees job, better suited for someone with the knees to cope.

No doubt that was exactly what Amelia was doing. She was helping to sort out Willie’s sac of bulbs finding those which were most suitable to plant. She seemed quite engaged in her work too. She appeared to be going at it with a passion.

Mr. McGee seemed quite pleased. That faraway look in his eyes was enough to convince her of that. She knew he had to be grateful as well. Emptying that sac was arduous work. Not the sort of thing you simply apply lip-service to. Something Rose understood and could tell Willie did as well. In fact, he already looked as if preparing to serve up a generous outpouring of his gratitude for all her hard work. Although the way Rose saw it, the hard working girl deserved not just his gratitude, but every gushing mouthful of his copious praise as well. “Perhaps a big hug too,” she hoped.

Rose leaned against the kitchen sink counter and smiled. She couldn’t have been more proud of Amelia. The strenuous hard work for such a delicate young thing had to have been quite arduous, especially in this heat. Yet she seemed so giving of herself. Perhaps Katherine had been right after all. Pampering the child only seemed to bring out the best, not the worst in her.

A few minutes later Amelia emerged and Rose looked on with some concern. Her pink Pedal Pushers below her knees were covered with dirt. She also had her head down and her hand over her mouth as though she might have gotten hurt. It occurred to her that there must have been an accident.

“Some sort of blow to the mouth,” she thought. “Those things can happen when you’re working in tight quarters.” Willie was a big man and in all the excitement he might have been a bit too energetic, losing control of an errant limb and inadvertently poked or pushed her a bit too hard. “A girl does have to be careful when working around something like that.”

Rose watched as Katherine draped an arm over her shoulder to coddle her. Fortunately, she had been standing at the entrance of the shed where she had been throughout in case of an emergency such as this. Shortly after, both were again smiling without evidence of injury. Rose sighed with some relief knowing it could have been worse. Especially since it only required a dab or two with a tissue to wipe clean the soil still clinging to her lips.

Soon after Katherine ushered Amelia back inside and upstairs to take a bath while Rose returned to her pie just as the timer sounded. As she began putting on her oven mittens, she could hear Willie out in the yard. Whistling! Apparently he was quite please to have had someone to help relieve his burden. Now he seemed quite ready to tackle the rest of the days work.
 
 
Scene XII: The Chief’s Nephew’s Son
 
 
Jack arrived back at his office shortly before 5 Pm. He entered finding Captain Turner sitting on the end of Cecil’s desk tossing a baseball with one hand while holding a cup of coffee in the other. As soon as he entered he tossed the ball toward him. That was his way of saying he wanted to talk with him alone. The only thing is, he hadn’t seen the ball coming and it ricocheted off his forehead and back toward Turner knocking the cup of coffee out of his hand and onto his lap.

“Shit!” Scream Spike, totally pissed off. “You should watch that aim, Cap. A bit more to the right and I would’a got yah right in the nuts.”

Bob Turner wasn’t laughing. He was trying desperately to cool himself off. “Back here, Murphy, we gotta talk.” Jack was regretting this case more and more. Every which way nothing was turning out like it should. Under normal circumstances he could have caught the thing with his teeth, no trouble at all. However his mind was fixed on finding Molly’s mother. Not on playing catch with a soft shoe who thinks it’s clever to throw a Mickey Mantle autographed baseball at someone who isn’t looking.

He followed Turned into the back office and closed the door behind. “I got a call from Gretchen Heller. She says you haven’t done a damn thing on her son’s case. What’s going on, Murphy? You know the families connected. He husband is the Chief’s nephew.”

“Putting the squeeze on, huh, Bob?”

“Yeah, you can say that. Look, no matter what you feel personally about it, you have to get on this pronto. At least give the lady a call for goodness sake.”

“Sorry bout that, buddy. I’ve just been busy.”

“So I hear.”

“Damn kid,” Jack mumbled to himself, knowing Cecil had been talking behind his back. “Look Cap, when am I going to get that replacement you promise? Maybe if I had someone who didn’t spend all day blabbing off and doing some work around here I’d have the time to get to that Heller case.”

“Don’t go blaming the kid. It’s your screw up. Besides, this Slade Street case you’re working on is a dead end anyway. I don’t need the kid to tell me that”

“Look, the Heller kid is a hop-head, plays bongos in the park when he ain’t running off. This is the third time. He belongs in a mental institution, not riding on my back.”

“Maybe you’re right, but he’s also the Chief’s nephew’s son, and if he comes down here he’s not going to be passing out hearts and flowers, or a promotion. Got me? Don’t piss him off. I’m warning you.”

“I know. It’s just that the Heller kid can take care of himself. He makes his own trouble. This girl left behind one hell of a dress!”

“What?”

“Oh nothing, I’m just saying there’s something here I can’t let go.”

“It’s a looser, Jack. I’m warning you. If your pursue it, you ass will end up in the wringer. I’ll say no more!” Bob Turner turned and left in a huff slamming the door closed behind.

Jack had a knot in his stomach, while the detective in him had his eye on the phone thinking about the calls he had to make to find Molly’s mother. Spike just mumbled, “Screw the Heller kid. That ain’t nothing but a dead end. Nothing to be found there but a kid puking up his guts in some bathroom, his parents too ashamed to do anything but keep it quiet. No glory there. No promotion. No name in the morning papers. No headlines reading: “NYPD Detective a Modern Day Sherlock Holmes.”

So he didn’t heed the warning. Instead he went back to his desk and picked up the phone.
 
 
Scene XIII: The Room with a View
 
 
Whenever Rose heard that song playing on the radio it reminded her of the night she had wandered into the living room to find Katherine dancing with her daughter. If she lived to be one hundred she would never think of that song in the same light again.

“Not in a bad way,” she thought as she gathered up the linens to carry upstairs. Granted, the lyrics were a bit simplistic and naíve, but the sound of desperation in the singer’s voice put it right up there alongside the best of the old crooner’s. She felt the same about Katherine and Amelia. She thought better of them than she did of herself for all the prying. That part never sat well with her.

In truth, she had to convince herself that it was a trick of the mind, a strange anomaly attributed to the complexities of human nature that allowed her to go unseen. Something beyond her understanding, yet allowed her to hide in plain sight as she peered into their lives. Whether or not that was true she could never be completely certain. There was always some lingering doubt. In fact, she often wondered if it had not been for Katherine’s good graces she would have been discovered long ago.

Not that it really mattered all that much to her. Whether it was by way of Katherine’s tacit approval or anomalous perception, she felt drawn to do so regardless. Her ventures into the recesses of their lives were growing bolder with each passing day, Katherine’s silence lighting the way. Especially upstairs where so much went on behind closed doors, and the room with the locked door that still piqued her curiosity to a bothersome degree.

She carried the stack of folded towels destine for the upstairs bathroom through the dining room on her way up the stairway. In passing the entrance to the pallor she saw Katherine standing alongside the desk where Amelia sat. Amelia was hunched over a sheet of pink stationary and envelope writing a letter. No doubt a letter to an old friend from finishing school, something Rose had seen her doing once before.

She knew because she had seen the finished letter sitting on the dinning room table ready for the post. The handwriting on the envelope was not of the quality she would have expected. It was chunky, not fluid like the handwriting you’d expect of a girl who attended two years of finishing school. It was also decorated with hearts and flowers with a strong smell of perfume. “Very immature for a girl her age,” she remembered thinking. She had even blotted her lipstick on the back. The red imprint of her lips sealing the envelope.

All of it seemed quite inappropriate, especially given it was addressed to a girl. Presumably a girl she knew from school and who lived on Hyde Street. A girl known simply as, “Sally!”

That’s why she remembered it so clearly. Of course she was old. Old fashion to a degree, and really didn’t get around much anymore. Just the same she knew it just wasn’t right to send her friend Sally such a letter. Hearts and flowers maybe, but a perfumed letter sealed with a kiss to another girl? Girls just didn’t do that. Not in her day and age, nor should it be any different now.

She had also been to Hyde Street. It had been some years back of course, to reclaim an impounded auto. She didn’t remember it as a residential area. It was an industrial park located next to the expressway. She supposed all that had changed. The city was growing and changing everyday. Perhaps there was one of those new luxury sky rise apartment buildings down there where the Nuevo rich now lived. With a Family rich enough to afford an exclusive upstate girl’s finishing school like Katherine.

She stood and watched Amelia for a moment. She was concentrating on her letter writing, seemingly filled with excitement, unable to put her words down on the paper fast enough. Katherine stood behind her chair looking over her shoulder. Occasionally Amelia would stop and lift her head in thought. Then Katherine would lean down and whisper something in her ear. Amelia would look up, giggle then quickly return to her writing. As if re-inspired by a clever thought Katherine had just passed on.

“Well,” she thought to herself, “it’s no business of mine.” Besides it was keeping mother and daughter pleasantly occupied. At least that was reassuring to her as she continued on her way up the stairs. In passing she found Katherine’s bedroom door open. She knew the room because she cleaned it daily, just as she had earlier that morning. Still she looked in and spotted her most recent change of lingerie sitting on the rocking chair just to the right and behind the bed.

That rocking chair was Katherine’s favorite spot to sit. Rose would see her most morning sitting there as she passed by the room. With the curtains closed she’d find her reading to her daughter who would be sitting on the floor at her feet.

The rocking chair was to the right and behind the bed, so she couldn’t pick up on all that much detail in the semi-dark. Then again, even in limited light it would have been impossible not to see the glaring image of Amelia. With her hair gathered up in pigtails, she could be seen wearing pink silk pajamas, adorned with pictures of rag dolls and fairies. From top to bottom aligned with a column of big fluffy white buttons shaped like cotton balls with slippers and mittens to match. Again, the suit was hardly fit to be worn by girl her age, if even a child past ten.

Of course Rose only saw it in passing, and Katherine always lowered her voice to a hushed whisper as she did. As if ashamed to let it be known Amelia still enjoyed stories about prince and princess’ in the land of fairytales and make believe. Nevertheless she saw no good reason why Katherine would want or need to treat her daughter as if she were a child. To Rose, Katherine’s behavior seemed inappropriate and slightly off-center.

“Well, no matter,” she shrugged as she made a mental note of picking up the soiled lingerie on her return downstairs. “Besides, what do I know about kids these days? Katherine and Amelia looked to be doing just fine without advice from me.”

On that thought she turned, shut the door behind and continued on her way. At the end of the hall was the bathroom. Just to the left of the bathroom was the door that always remained locked. The chair that once stood outside came to mind, and again the thought of Gerald and the mystery surrounding that room. She gave it a casual glance in passing and to her surprise saw something wholly unexpected - Startling, in fact. The door that had always been locked was not. It was only slightly ajar, but enough to see the light through the opening.

She stopped, felt her heart race and thought of sneaking just a little peek. Why not? It was a simple, innocuous act that would harm no one. She played with that thought long enough to deliver the bundle of towels to the bathroom to unburden her hands. Then on her return she quietly pushed the door open to have her look.

What she saw was as startling as finding the room unlocked. She had been wrong. This was not Amelia’s room. It was an infant’s nursery! Whichever room Amelia slept, it certainly wasn’t this one. Not with the crib, the changing table, rattles, bottles and such.

She felt a bundle of emotions race through her all at once. The revelation had been totally unexpected. She was also a bit shocked that Katherine would want to make a shrine out of an infant’s nursery when her daughter was already a gown young woman. She would have thought all this would have been stored in the attic long ago, or given to the Salvation Army. She knew this was a big house and there were other rooms for Amelia to sleep, but why keep all this intact?

At first glance it didn’t make a whole lot of sense to her. If anything, it only helped to solidify the notion that Katherine was a bit of an eccentric. “Or was it a darker precipice she stood beside?” She wondered. “Could she be a woman still harboring the need to hold on to something she thought she lost, but in fact, hadn’t?” On the face of it, it did appear to her an obsession that had no cause and no reason.

That said, she didn’t think poorly of her. If she was a woman with a strange twist in her character, so be it. She was loyal, trusted, and considered herself a friend. Someone who could accept her faults as well as her friendship. Besides, the room was really quite lovely. If this were indeed a shrine dedicated to an infant Amelia, the children of the king of Siam could not have been given better.

She stepped in wanting to get a feel of it. It was a large room, easily the largest bedroom in the house. It had a high ceiling and a bay-style window with a built-in seat and a view overlooking the back yard. Bright and airy, the walls were covered with canary yellow wallpaper with large patterns of dolls and rocking horses. The floors were hardwood of course, rich in luster, but with a throw rug beside the crib. A rather large crib! One a toddler could get lost in and not found for days. It also looked used. With a dummy nipple, a blanket or two and even a bottle that looked as fresh as the day it had last been used. Even Katherine’s breast pump still hung draped over the side railing.

Against one wall there was a large white Elizabethan potbelly bureau and a large chiseled mirror mounted on a pedestal to adjust the pitch. There was also a changing table where a pile of diapers, pins, rubber panties, ointment and talcum still sat on top. Beside the table, there was a rocking horse. A carousel pony so richly ornate it looked to be torn from the pages of children’s storybook tale.

There were also stuffed bears, bunnies and dolls by the score. A rather large dollhouse as well, with a rubber dolly standing in front, its clothes still scattered about amongst the coloring books and paper-doll cut outs. All looking as if a child had been playing a dress-up game with her dolls that very day.

She spotted a large closet and made her way through the stuffed bears, bunnies and dolls. She wanted to see what Katherine had stored in the closet of an infant’s nursery. She had expected to find prams, carriers, toys and the like, but what she expected was not what she found. Hanging in the closet was a wardrobe of clothes. Children’s clothes, only they were clothes for a much older child. Short little dresses of satin and lace in every color and form all neatly hung alongside all sorts of fanciful wear.

One item in particular she spotted right off. It was a sleek little black dress. The same dress she had seen Amelia wearing while dancing with her mother downstairs. There was no question about it. The same sewn in silvery spangles sparkled in the room light.

“So Katherine uses this room to store the clothes Amelia wore as a young woman as well,” she muttered to herself. “How odd!”

Suddenly it dawned on her that Amelia was still very much a part of this room. “Amelia had not only been in here but she’s been using the clothes.”

She turned and looked around again. Everything looked fresh and new to her now. Nothing neither smelt nor looked as if it had been 18 years in storage. She walked over to the crib and reached in for the baby bottle. The residue of milk was not soured nor crusty or old. The breast pump still had residual traces of moisture, even the pillow and blankets showed the signs of recent use.

Now her curiosity truly got the better of her. No longer thinking about what might happen if she were to be discovered prying around, she delved deeper into the mystery. She walked over to the bureau knowing full well what she should find stored in there, but again, that didn’t prove out to be the case.

Instead of baby clothes, she found one drawer filled with panties and bras. In yet another drawer, petticoats, suspenders and fancy lace stockings of every style, weave, weight and color. In the bottom drawer she found nighties, chemises and shorts. Again, clothes for an older child or young teen, and again, nothing smelt of long storage.

She shuffled through the drawer sorting out shorts, nighties and tops until she spotted a black silk vest that nearly choked off her wind. She pulled it out and held it up to the light to make sure it was as she suspected — Gerald’s vest! The boy vest! The vest without the buttons Katherine had him wear as her errand boy before they left a year ago.

She was spellbound by the discovery. She could think of no reason why Gerald’s vest would be stored in that drawer. It was at that moment she heard footsteps coming up the steps and her heart fell to her stomach. Consumed by panic she tried hard to get hold of her wits to think what she should do. Hurriedly she put the vest back in the drawer, closed it and then headed for the door only to find it was too late. Katherine and Amelia were already half way down the hall heading for the room.

She quickly thought to exit regardless, but before starting her exit she spotted a laundry basket kept behind the door. She hadn’t a clue as to what might be in it, but she thought if she were to walk out with the dirty laundry in hand it would give her reason for having gone in there. So on instinct she quickly grabbed it, but before she could turn and walk out the door Katherine and Amelia entered. Opening the door full way to the laundry basket clutched in her arms, leaving her pressed between the opened door and the wall.

So frightened by what had happened she was frozen in place, scarcely able to breathe. She could see them both quite clearly and as yet, fortunately, they had not spotted her partially hidden behind the door. Both stood to the right of the door, not directly in her line of sight, or she in theirs. Yet like the proverbial fly on the wall she was close enough to hear a heartbeat and they didn’t even know she was there!

She stood and watched as Katherine help her daughter pull her dress over her head then helped provide support as her daughter stepped down off a pair of spiked heels that had added an extra 5 inches to her height. Amelia then unclasped the suspenders from her hosiery and carefully rolled her stockings down each leg. While Katherine unclasped her suspended belt, then gathered up all the clothes to set down on a near by chair. That left Amelia standing barefoot in only her well-stuffed brassiere and a pair of pink panties, awaiting her mothers return.

Katherine returned a moment later to unclasp the brassiere which in large part looked to be in support of a significant volume. However, once it was removed and set atop a nearby chair, Rose saw that the well-stuffed brassiere had been stuffed with nothing more than cotton. Rather large knots of it that had been posing as the predominant bosom the girl did not have. The same was true of her panties. While obviously quite full of her plump bottom, when pulled down and removed, it became apparent that what had been posing as hips was nothing more than a padded belt.

Of course from where Rose stood Amelia was facing away so she hadn’t the advantage of seeing the whole package. Plus Amelia had her arms crossed over her chest to stave off a chill. Yet she still could see from the cup of her hand why the girl need cover up. It was decidedly less than any girl would wish, but a bit more than she could palm in one hand and enough in volume to fill a measuring cup to good measure. Even so, with her boyishly slender hips she looked like a girl not yet grown into womanhood and very uncomfortable with that fact.

A few moments later Katherine returned with a bathrobe for her daughter to put on. Then just as they had entered they turned and walked out the door. Amelia was going to take her bath. Again, they exited to the right of her. Not directly in her line of sight or she in theirs. Although it did provide Rose with an interestingly new vantage point unlike any she’d had thus far. Now as they passed through the door, Amelia was facing toward her. This gave Rose a full frontal view of a pair of perky, teardrop shaped breasts, and below that, a sparsely bushed knoll at the apex of her thighs. Out from which stemmed a turgid, pendulant rise!

Surprised? You bet, but that wasn’t all of it, nor the worse. There was something even more profound that robbed her of her breath to the point of strangulation. It was that one fleeting moment before Amelia had turned her head down. It was a snapshot. One still frame unlike any other she had in her memory of her. Something she suddenly realized she had never seen before. A glimpse of her face close-up!

Her face was painted thick and bold and shades toward the absurd. With high arched brows and cheeks rouged rose-pink, it was Molly’s face, replete with blood red lips, long fluttering lashes and eyes ringed with black kohl and violet. Like mother, like son, he was her split image. Molly reborn!

Like a soldier still dazed from a near miss cannon blast, Rose leaned back, her shoulders lax against the wall. She had seen what her mind had yet to grasp. Only when she heard the bathroom door close did she let go. Slowly sliding down the wall, she crumbled into a mass on the floor. Then as the bath water ran, she pressed her face to her knees and cried.
 
 
Scene XIV: Betty Carver
 
 
Jack had put in his calls and summarized his list. It had taken him four days and when he got the final call, he grabbed his hat and coat and ran out the door like a shot. He paused for only a moment to shout out to his young apprentice, “Hold all my calls, Cecil, I’ll be back in a day or two. Oh, and I want you to run a check on a Melvin Kline. Deceased, date of death March 3rd, 1959, age 56, last known residence, 30401 Slade Street, Brooklyn. I want to know who he was married to. I also want you to keep you damn ass planted by the phone. Got it?”

Now knowing her full name he had scoured all city, state and federal documents in hopes of pulling together an evidentiary record of Molly’s existence. He hadn’t found much, but her record of birth and tax filings listing Molly as a dependent proved to be all he would need to pinpoint her mother. Brook Bend, Virginia, population 340, located 10 miles north of Calhoun at the foot of Appalachians. His destination, Betty’s Beauty Salon to see a woman he was most anxious to meet, Betty Carver, aka Molly’s mother.

It took him 10 hours to drive it. Then another 6 hours to get close enough to smell it and 3 hours just to travel the few short miles that remained. The department issue 57 Chevy he had signed out was buried beneath a layer of dust and soot and minus a taillight from a run-in with a misplaced tree, but he still got there before lunch the next morning. “Betty Carver, I presume?”

“Yeah, that’ll be me you be speakin’ to. What yah be needin’, trim, shave? You name it, Betty can do yah right nice.”

“No ma’am, I’m Detective Jack Murphy, NYPD,” he said as he presented his badge, “and I need to speak with your daughter, Molly. Where can I speak with her?”

“Ah, don’t s’pose I know. I ain’t heard from the girl since she moved back up north.”

“Why yah askin’, she in some sort’a trouble or somethin’?”

“No ma’am, I just need to ask her a few questions.”

“Then you’ve seen her recently, right?”

“Why yes sir. Err, kinda, anyway. She come through here about 8-9 months ago. Hit it lucky in the Canadian Lottery and was goin’ up to Syracuse to buy herself some lounge she heard was for sale. One with lots of pool table in case I be wantin’ ta come visit.”

“The Lottery, huh? That’s good news,” he sighed, happy enough to hear Molly was still alive 8 months ago. “How much she win?”

“Didn’t say, but she got her mama this here watch. Nice, don’t yah think?”

“Yeah, not bad,” he replied, moving away from the expensive Rolex she held up to his face. “Guess she hit it big. Did she say where the bar was?”

“Nah! Someplace close to downtown though ‘cause she said the bus station be close by if I be wantin’ to come visit. Fact, she said she were goin’ to name it after me.”

“What about her son? You didn’t mention him?”

“Gerald?” She cackled.

“Gerald!” He echoed the name he sorely needed. “Gerald Carver! Yes, is he with his mother?”

“Ah, the boy is doin’ just fine. He ain’t with his mama. The boy’s got himself a job an’ doin’ just fine I hear. Least Molly done told me.”

Jack was a bit disappointed to have not found Molly, but he was relieved to hear she was still alive and apparently doing quite well. Still the question still remained. Where had she gotten the money? If she did win the lottery then case closed, but he would’ve heard about that. It would have been in the news, and he couldn’t recall having heard about anyone from New York hitting the Canadian Lottery in years. So where had the money come from, and where was Gerald? Questions he still had to find the answers to before he’d let this case go.

He wasted little time getting Cecil on the phone. “Cecil, I want you to check with the Canadian authorities and ask if they had any lottery winners with the name Molly Carver. I’ll call you back tonight. Got it?”

“Got it! By the way,” Cecil promptly followed. “Before you hang up on me, I’ve got that information you wanted on the recently deceased Melvin Kline. It says here he was married to a Katherine Moore.”

“No kidding,” Jack muttered into the phone, then cringed as if he had suddenly caught whiff of something rotting beneath the woodpile.

“I’ve something else for you too. It’s a message from Fred Hazelton. Hold on, I’ll get it . . .”

While awaiting Cecil’s return he mulled over what he had just heard: “If Melvin Kline was married to Katherine Moore then who is Katherine Stanton?” Katherine Stanton was not a factitious name. She did exist, that much he knew. The Prep School he had called had verified the fact, as well as the existence of her daughter, Amelia.

He felt a bit ashamed to admit he didn’t know the answer to that question. He was also feeling a tad pissed off for having been duped and wanted to rush back to Brooklyn to find out the truth. At the moment however, he had something more pressing to attend to. He had to find Molly, and if he still didn’t know Katherine’s true identity by then, you can bet 5 cents to a cup of coffee that postman would know. A question he should have asked him long ago.

“You still hanging, boss?” Cecil’s voice came through the phone.

“Yeah, I got’cha.”

“Hazelton says to tell you a positive ID has been made on Romano Salazar and would be issuing an arrest warrant in the morning. Apparently some guy got tagged trying to hawk some stolen jewelry and rolled over on Salazar. It sounds like they’ve got him dead to rights too.”

“Do tell,” Jack chuckled. “I know the rat was up to something.”

“Say Lieutenant, wasn’t that the guy you thought might be involved in that case you’re working on?”

“Just a minor character, Cecil. A mouthpiece, that’s all. I’ve already gotten all I need out of the dirt bag. Give Hazelton a call back and tell him I wish I could be there to take him down myself.”

“Got’cha, boss!” Ceil managed to squeeze in before Jack hung up the phone.

A moment later Jack was off for a quick bite to eat then it was on the road again. To Syracuse finally zeroing in on Molly and, hopefully, putting an end to this confounded mess that was growing uglier by the day.
 
 
Scene XV: Silk Stockings
 
 
Rose had been a walking basket case through the remainder of the day. Paralyzed by the though that haunted her every wakened moment, and now as she tried to sleep. She was tossing and turning in bed trying to shut out that single, momentary glimpse of Amelia, err, Gerald that refused to let her go.

How she had managed to finish her work day she didn’t even know. She had simply gone through the motions. The question, her statement, caught on the end of her tongue, refusing to come out. No more need be said, Rose was in tatters and it wasn’t going away.

In truth, the longer she mulled it over in her mind the worse it seemed to get. What had been anger now teetered on the verge of hysteria, considerably more than her 68 year old heart was able to cope. How was she supposed to go back to work in the morning pretending she didn’t know what she did? How was she to live through the night with that vision of Gerald with breasts imprinted on the ceiling when she looked up, behind her closed eyes when she tried to sleep?

She looked at the time and then the phone. Should she call Detective Murphy, or should she go and confront Katherine? It was 10:30 and late, clearly too late to call detective Murphy. Although Katherine could still be awake. If not, she would wake her. Besides, maybe there was some explanation, something that could somehow make it all right. So she put on her clothes, wrapped her sore aching feet tightly in her boots and walked out into the cool autumn night.

When she arrived she used her key to enter the side gate knowing the front gate, always locked after dark would already be secure for the night. Only Katherine had that key, and since she had planned on ringing the front entrance bell, she had little choice but to walk across the yard through the garden to reach her destination. She was already midway, somewhere between the Hydrangea and the Hawthorn when a Checkered Cab pulled up and parked at the curb in front. She stopped and watched as the lights were turned off and a man got out and started to make his way toward the house. She had seen him before. It was the driver who had asked Katherine to pay Molly’s debt - The guy who tried to look like James Dean.

She could see him, but it was quite apparent that in the dark shadows and the hedge row he had not as yet spotted her. So she backed off slowly through the shrubbery then worked her way around to the back of the house to use the kitchen door. Before she rounded the corner she stopped to watch as the man walk up the steps, open the door and walk in. All done quite nonchalant, with an undaunted skip to his step. As if he owned that house! As if he owned those inside! As if he belonged there, had been there before, and there was nothing unusual about finding both the front gate and front door unlocked.

She hurried as quickly as her poor arching feet would carry her up the back steps. With her key she let herself in, quietly entering the kitchen where she saw a faint light through the space at the bottom of the dinning room door. Pressing her ear to the door she could hear the muffled sound of music coming from further on in the house. Slowly she pushed open the door and passed through the dark house toward the light and the song emanating from the living room. The very same song she saw Katherine and Amelia, err, Gerald, dancing to several weeks prior.

She advanced slowly and cautious until she spotted Katherine dressed in the same white men’s dress suit. Her hair tied in a tight bun in back and slicked back in front cutting quite the masculine profile. A few steps more and the man from the cab came into view. Dressed in blue jeans and t-shirt he was dancing with his back to her.

She stopped and watched the man waltzing to the melody, gliding so effortlessly with Amelia, err, Gerald, tied to his every step. His arms wrapped around her torso, his hands clasping, squeezing her bottom as if wringing out a sponge. Their bodies pressed into one, he wheeled her around giving Rose her first full glimpse of them pressed breast to chest, pelvis melded to Blue-Jeans.

There was no mistaking that look. With her fiery red lips and her long sultry lashes fluttering with abandon, this was not a girl, err, boy in retreat.

There was nothing unclear about the way she was dressed either. Not when you consider the near vertical rake of her heels. Or the thigh high silk stockings held in place by a pair of garters garnished with red rose appliqué. Both of which looked quite daring and bold, meant to excite the passions. Though surprising Amelia wasn’t wearing the little black dress she had been seen dancing in before. No. Instead, Gerald, err, Amelia apparently decided to brave the slight evening chill and wore nothing but panties alone!

Rose backed away and slipped out the door under cover of that song as the singer’s voice rang out, “Only the Lonely, dum-dum-dum-dumdy-da . . .”
 
 
Scene XVI: Betty’s Bar
 
 
Jack looked up and had to laugh. The sign simply read, “Betty’s Bar.” She had apparently named it after her mother just as she had promised. What’s more, across the street was the bus depot. This was all too easy.

To put it kindly, the place was a dump. He wasn’t likely to run into any Slade Street residents savoring the atmosphere of this place. Comparatively speaking, this upscale cosmopolitan establishment was differently not kosher. Unless you factored into the equation the drunks in dirty crinkled denim shirts, empty pockets and worn shoes.

He already knew that Molly’s name wasn’t on the list of Lottery winners. Which to our keen-eyed investigator could only mean one of two things: Either she stole the money or Katherine had given it to her. He still didn’t know, but one thing was certain. Wherever she’d gotten the money, if she shelled out any more than a hundred bucks for this joint it was 99 bucks too much. It did have a nice pool table though. Now that was something Spike could appreciate.

He also appreciated the fact that there were five upstairs apartments above the place. One of which belonged to the owner of this 5 star establishment. “Very convenient,” he thought as the bartender pointed the way to Apartment 3. Access conveniently provided via a flight of wooden stairs off the back alley located between the waste bins - Which in the scope of things was a pretty apt description of the place.

Jack wished he could have been a mistaken, but when she answered to the name, Molly Carver, it was clear that this used and battered shell of a girl who was once the Queen of the Niles Street Bar was indeed her. “Yah, what can I be doin’ yah for, hun?”

With dark rings under her eyes, her hair mussed and smelling of hard liquor, she was not a pretty sight. Bare foot and dressed in only her crinkled slip, she opened the door and stood by quietly listening as Jack went through all the facts he knew. In the background, a quasi-inebriated fellow hurriedly pulled on his trousers and slipped out of the room. A few moments later Molly was sitting at the end of the bed, stooped over and cupping her tear drenched face in her hands.

She admitted taking twenty-thousand in cash from Katherine in turn for her signature on the custodial rights and adoption papers. Or as she so eloquently phrased it, “I done sol my soul, Mr. Murphy.”

He shuffled through the documents she had kept bundled amidst the lingerie in the top bureau drawer. All notarized and Stamped with the seal of the State of New York, City and Borough of Brooklyn. Everything looked quite proper and legal. If he was looking for an angle to claim malfeasance or a crime, it would take more than a flatfoot who hated wearing ties and the men who wore them to figure this one out. Although somehow he didn’t think it would be found in the preparation of these documents. It all looked rather well planned, executed with precision down to the legal weight of the paper.

As Molly explained it, she came home one night to find two well dressed gentleman alongside Katherine waiting to talk with her. The whole scheme proposed over a cup of tea as casually as selling a piece of real estate. No money would change hands. At least as far as the State of New York and the City and Borough of Brooklyn were concerned. What went on between Mrs. Kline and herself, however, was another matter. If she was in agreement, then she would be expected to vacate the area immediately. If she were to return, trespass upon the property, she would be arrested.

At some point Katherine had taken her into the kitchen out of view of her two attorneys, all to afford the attorneys plausible deniability, you understand. There she handed over the small case containing the twenty-thousand. Two-hundred, one hundred dollar bills, all tightly bundled in stacks of five-thousand each. It was more money than she had ever seen in her life. An opportunity to change her fortunes forever, and the cost?

As it was so eloquently articulated to her by the attorneys, Gerald would be gaining a home and a loving mother. He would have only the best. Second, Gerald would be 18 in a few short months anyway, and at 18 he would be free to do as he pleased regardless. Third, if Gerald so wished, documents for his emancipation could be filed the very next day. With her record, it would be a very easy case for the judge to determine. Either way she would lose her son.

Of course she knew nothing of Gerald’s current circumstance, but cried sorrowfully for the mistaken choice she made. She hoped the law could somehow forgive her for what she did and wished there was a way she could make amends. Something he planned on giving her the opportunity to do. “Molly, you’re coming back with me. If I’m right about this, you might be able to square this with yourself, the justice system, your god and me.”
 
 
Scene XVII: Rookie’s Mistake
 
 
It was 6 a.m. and Cecil was standing outside the Donut Delight holding a large box of jelly donuts trying to wave down a cab. Not such an easy thing to do with your hands full during the early morning rush. It was his day to supply the donuts for the morning briefing, and with only 30 minutes to get to the station, he was prepared to jump into most anything short of a rickshaw to get there on time.

That would include a Checkered Cab with a cabbie who had a pack of camels rolled up his sleeve and a pompadour trying his damnedest to look like the late James Dean.

“Temple St. Station. Can you make it in 30 minutes,” Cecil asked as he slid in back and slammed the door closed.

“Sure thing, bud,” the cabbie replied as he was already on the move with the meter clicking, his cab accelerating in and through the traffic. “Traffic is a bitch this time of the morning so hold tight.”

Cecil was holding on for dear life and for good reason. With the sound of squealing brakes he looked out the window and saw a woman angrily waving her fist at the cab for cutting her off. In turn, the cabbie was cursing like a lunatic, and from the way he was driving Cecil thought the guy might have been just that. “Hey, I want’a get to work on time, but in one piece, got it?”

The cabbie laughed and pointed to a lace garter hanging from his rear view mirror. A very pretty lace garter garnished with a red rose appliqué. “My good luck charm. Got it last night.”

“A souvenir or trophy?”

“Souvenir. It’s true love!” The cabbie grinned, flashing his gold plated tooth. “Baby loves daddy, and daddy is just lov’in his baby.”

“Must be something special.”

“One in a million. As pretty as a Prom Queen. Not much on top, but man oh man, what an ass.”

“Better be careful, you don’t want’a piss off her poppa. He might be looking to cut that sweet little relationship off with a meat cleaver. That’ll ruin your day.”

“Nah, no poppa to worry about, and mama supports her baby.”

“That sounds big of her,” Cecil said sarcastically showing obvious disdain.

“Hey, don’t knock it. She ain’t loony. What’s whacked out is that every kid don’t have a mama who will support them no matter what. That’s love man, unconditional love.”

“Well, I guess that would depend upon your point of view.”

“That’s the problem, least that’s the way I see it. Everyone has a point of view when they oughta just be thinking about putting their kids before their on self-interest.”

“Yeah, well, what if she wants to put a ring through her nose? Or wants to tattoo her boyfriends name on her arm? You think the parents should stand back and do nothing?”

“Hey, if she wants to wear a ring in the nose it ain’t hurting anything except maybe a bit of personal pride. She’s old enough. It’s her choice, not her mother’s.”

“True, I guess, but if that’s not how the rest of the world sees it then its wrong.”

“You say I’m right and that makes me wrong? And people think the kids are crazy today.”

“Yeah, I guess it does sound a bit nuts.” Cecil replied feeling a bit self-conscious. The point the cabbie had made was a bit out of his league. It seemed sound, logical, but nothing that fit with how the real world works. It might even be considered dangerous thinking, perhaps even criminal. There was a need for people to adhere to some social standards, right? If we didn’t, who knows what might come next. Today Elvis, tomorrow boys with hair down to their shoulders and girls with pierced tongues. All the same he respected him for having the courage to say it, even if he didn’t know the guy.

“I still think you oughta be lookin’ out for that meat cleaver because that kind of thinking could land you in trouble.”

“Nah, mama and I have an understanding,” laughed the cabbie as he pulled up to the station.

“Hu, well, nice gig if you can get it,” Cecil replied as he quickly looked at his watch then pulled out his wallet to pay the cabbie.

“Thanks,” he said while getting out and handed him the 2.50 plus a quarter tip. Then he leaned in and said, “You know, for a dumb cabbie, you’re really a very smart guy.”

The cabbie looked up and replied, “The names Sally, and for a cop you ain’t all that dumb neither.”

Cecil stepped into the station with 10 minutes to spare. He made a quick dash to the office to check to see if Murphy had as yet returned, entering just in time to catch the call on the third ring.

“Detective Murphy’s office, how may I help you?”

“I would like to speak with Detective Murphy, please.” Rose was on the end of the line trying to keep her composure long enough to get through the call. She hadn’t slept a wink all night. Her nerves were frayed, her eyes were puffed red and she felt as though the bottom had fallen out from under her world.

It was almost more than her 68 year old heart could take and she was cursing herself for not retiring last year like she wanted. Now the decision had been made for her. She wouldn’t be going back to work, nor would she ever step foot in that house again. That is, unless it was with detective Murphy to identify the wrong-doer he was hauling off to jail in cuffs.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry. Detective Murphy is out of the office. May I please take a message?”

“Please. Would you have him return my call as soon as he gets in? This is Rosaline Leberwitz. Tell him I know what happened to Molly and her son. Tell him a heinous crime has been committed at the Kline residence.”

“What’s that ma’am?” He managed to get out before he heard the click of the phone. “Damn,” he cursed to himself. “Jack was right all along. This wasn’t a dead end.”

Not even close to “a waste of department time” as Captain Turned had said. The guy was on to something big and both he and Captain Turner were too blind to see it. His excuse? He was just a rookie. Captain Turner didn’t have one.

Disgusted with himself for being so shortsighted he walked over to Jack’s desk to have a look at the case file. Something he had never taken an interest in before, only now realizing his second big mistake. As he sat in Jack’s chair, opened the file and read:

“The State of New York, district and country of Brooklyn, here by issues a warrant for the arrest of Romano L. Salazar, aka ‘Sally,’ as subject to state criminal code, section . . . thief of private property in excess of . . .”

“SALLY!” Then it dawned on him. “The cab driver!”
 
 
Scene XVIII: The Show Down
 
 
The next afternoon Jack still hadn’t called in. He wasn’t anywhere near a phone. He had Molly in the car and they were just approaching the Brooklyn Bridge on his way to Slade Street. In ten minutes it would all be coming to an end. First however he had to stop and make that overdue call.

He found a pay phone and called Cecil to have him send a squad car to the Kline residence at exactly 7 p.m. sharp. As it was five o’clock now, he wanted sufficient time to package everything up nicely before the patrol car arrived. Cecil responded as though he were on top of it, and then told him about the call he’d received from Rosaline Leberwitz and his chance encounter with Romano Salazar in the cab.

Jack listened quietly and it wasn’t until after Cecil expressed his heart felt apology for his erroneous judgment concerning the merit of this case that Jack let him have it.

“Yeah, okay, piss out your mouth all you want pecker breath, but it ain’t goin’ to change nothin’. Until you learn to stop feeding your face with them jelly donuts and playing kiss ass for your own self-aggrandizement you’ve always be just another dumb-ass flatfoot to me.”

“You’re right Lieutenant. I’m chalking it up as lesson number one. If I want to be a good cop then I’ve gotta learn to stop thinking like one.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll be watchin’,” Jack summed up his point, but before he could hang up Cecil told him there was another memo sitting on his desk.

“It’s from Hazelton,” Cecil promptly added. “It’s attached to copy of an arrest warrant issued for Romano Salazar. It reads, ‘Sorry you missed all the fun. I know how much you loved the guy. Not to worry, you’ll find him down in lock up sharing in a cozy cell with that big guy from French Lick when you get back. Hazelton.’”

He was sorry to have missed out on that one, but in the scheme of things Sally was small potatoes. This Kline case had all the right ingredients to hit the front page of the morning papers. Considering the titillating aspects of the case the story might even make it to all the national papers, his picture included. Perhaps even televised interviews, and if he was lucky, a big fat promotion after all was said and done.

Of course it was still only a hunch. A pretty good one he suspected and he seldom got it wrong. He was a cop who could smell it out no matter how deep the crap was buried, and if his hunch panned out, the whole stinking mess of a case was about to be dug up and put away with all the other sewage.

He hadn’t told Molly about it however. She was his eye witness. The one who would identify the perpetrator and he didn’t want her testimony tainted. He might not be able to get her out of trouble for taking the money in exchange for her son, but at least he was going to see to it that the real bad guy, Katherine, hung from the gallows first.

He also knew the collar wouldn’t come as a result of all the legal slight-of-hand so skillfully crafted by the attorneys. Like always, the guys with the suits and ties knew how to maneuver around the law. It was like China Town, but instead of silk robes they wore suits and ties. That’s why he hated them. They never got caught. Not Katherine though, not if his hunch was right. Forced detainment, unlawful imprisonment, human trafficking, covering up to impede an investigation were crimes in any jurisdiction. All he had to do was prove it was Gerald under that dress.

He pulled up in front of Katherine’s, exhaled a huge sigh and tried to compose himself. He wanted to be ready for this. It was the moment of truth and he would have to be on top of his game. He looked over at Molly. She was sitting on the passenger’s side still with a tissue in her hand to dry her eyes.

“Now I know you’re not going to like any of this, but it’s important that you keep a firm grip on yourself for your son’s sake. You did wrong by him Molly, and there ain’t much I can do to protect you from the punishment you’re due. But this is your moment to make up for it. You can save your son and redeem yourself. Only that ain’t going to happen if you fall apart on me. Now, are you up for it, kid?” Jack asked, careful to air only his unwavering determination.

He didn’t want to give any false hope or lead her to believe all this was going to come out alright in the end. He didn’t even want her to think he felt sorry for her, because he didn’t. From all he’d seen, all he’d heard, this was an unfit mother. She was a girl completely out of control who didn’t deserve sympathy, only the firm application of the law.

Besides, he had seen it before - the cowed face, the quivering lip of fear; the eyes that sought forgiveness showing repentance. None of it ever persuaded him. Yet she did manage to coax a slight smile from him. Albeit somewhat twisted in a rather snide sort of way. The kind of smile you’d expect from a ruthless hunter like Spike. A guy so full of himself nothing ever got in his way.

Jack told her to wait in the car. While Spike, still unshaven and his crinkled shirt still hanging out, trod up the steps and rang the bell. A moment later he was flashing his badge and stepped through, not around Katherine as she opened the door. She had not met Spike before, but she was about to get a good taste of him now.

He followed Katherine into the Living room. Gerald, err, Amelia was already there, having come quickly to Katherine’s aid. Spike wasted little time in presenting his case. The allegations all based on what he had convinced himself were true.

“Katherine Kline, I need ask you. Is Stanton truly your maiden name?”

“No Sir, it is not. My maiden name is Moore.”

“I’ve already made that determination, ma’am. It would seem the Stanton’s live next door and Amelia Stanton is their daughter, nor yours. That would also be the girl who had attended Amherst Girl’s Preparatory at the time you claim your nonexistent daughter had. Although from all I can ascertain, the two of you have never met, and the use of her name as an alias for your nonexistent daughter was nothing more than a convenient way to thwart my investigation. That’s the bright side and with any luck, the least you shall be held accountable for.”

“Ma’am, Mrs. Klein, it is my firm belief you have broken the law by forcibly detaining Gerald Carver against his will, and wrongfully imprisoned him by forcing him to wear girl’s clothes. You have also engaged in unlawfully trafficking in the purchase of a person for the sum of twenty-thousand dollars. Furthermore, you lied to impede a police investigation and that’s just for a start! In short ma’am, what I am alleging is that this girl, this, this aberration you have holding on to you is in fact Gerald Carver, and I’m intent on proving it!”

Katherine flushed a feverish red, her rage written across her brow. Her look, her posture didn’t give a single clue as to her guilt. She looked pissed off, not worried, but then so did Spike. The pair of combatants where near nose to nose as if in a stare down to see who would blink first.

“No she isn’t, and no you won’t!” Katherine hissed between clenched teeth.

Without so much as a blink or break in her stare, she latched on to Amelia’s shoulder and pulled her between herself and the detective. “I’ve done nothing wrong detective,” she said as she reached round and began unbuttoning her daughter’s blouse.

Spike, Jack and the detective watched as she unbuttoned it full. Then she pulled the blouse down over her shoulders revealing two pear-shaped breasts, quivering like two small molds of Jello. Shaking from fright, her tears fall like rain drops onto her breasts, then into rivulets that cascaded down to the floor.

Spike thought they looked a pretty fine pair while Jack only saw the horror it in. The detective however was looking at something quite different. His attentions were drawn to a light discoloration about the size of a quarter located just under the left clavicle. It was a birth mark, one that had a rather peculiar shape to it too. Sort of shaped like the profile of a horse’s head.

“There’s no need ma’am,” he quickly responded as he broke off his gaze. Then he thrashing angrily with his hands to signal he had seen enough. “Cover those up.”

Katherine pulled the blouse back over her daughter’s shoulders while the frightened quivering girl clenched the ends of her blouse closed to cover up. “Is your name Amelia and are you my daughter?” Katherine asked her daughter.

“Yes!”

A moment later, Jack was walking out the front door on his way to get Molly. He knew the boy was lying. He was not a she. Amelia was only the product of Katherine’s evil mind. After a year of brainwashing she had apparently convinced the boy it was true. All the same, it hardly mattered. He was destined for a psychiatric hospital regardless and Katherine to jail. All he need do is ask Molly to identify that birth mark and the jig would be up.

Molly’s tearful entrance affected neither Katherine nor Gerald nor Amelia. Katherine stood stone-faced and Gerald with his head bowed to the floor. Amelia stood clenching her unbuttoned blouse over her breasts, sobbing almost as loudly as Molly.

Molly made no effort to acknowledge her son. Jack had asked her to remain quiet. To do nothing until asked, and only then response to his request no matter what was to happen.

“Molly Carver, is this your son Gerald?” he asked as he pulled Amelia’s collar back over the left clavicle.”

Molly crumpled down into a heap onto a chair. Through her tears and through the hands that covered her face she bellowed, “Yes, yes that’s my Pea’ches.”

“No I’m not!” Gerald screamed out in defiance. Then Amelia tearfully followed between sobs of despair, “My name is Amelia!”

Spike, the bull-dog, was enraged. To think this sick pathetic little thing could lie with such a bold-face. Not just to him, but to his own mother. Even such as she was she deserved more respect than that from the likes of him. There was no detective in him now. No Murphy to look over his shoulder. He was a man consumed by his pride, determined to keep his unblemished record and his reputation in tact. Then like a man possessed - a man blinded by his rage - he slapped the boy, open handed with the palm of his hand.

Gerald’s face was wrenched to the right cringing from the shock of the blow. Amelia’s tears were sent flying like shrapnel from an exploding grenade. “Are you Gerald?”

“NO!” Gerald replied defiantly, straightening up and staring into his eyes, while Amelia’s tears fell like a rainy autumn day.

Spike was angry, his contempt for the boy who he knew was lying consumed him, “You’re lying! I know you’re lying because Molly, your mother, says so. She just identified your birth mark, proof positive you are indeed her son. So say it boy… DON’T PLAY WITH ME!”

“Are you Gerald?”

“NO!” Gerald stood steadfast while Amelia’s tears rained like spindrift on a stormy winter’s sea.

Spike had now lost what cool he had left in him. No longer feeling sympathy or compassion, he pushed Gerald back until he ran him up against the wall. Holding him tightly with one hand, he reached out and swung with the other, slapping him again hard with the back of his hand.

Gerald’s face spun to the left by the force of the blow while Amelia’s tears scattered like chards from a shattered pane.

“Are you Gerald?”

“NO!” Smack! Gerald screamed, and again Amelia’s tears whipped through the air like a phalanx of arrows.

“Are you Amelia?”

“NO!” Slap! Again Gerald cried out, deaf to all but the anger and the hate in Jack’s voice, while Amelia’s teardrops were driven like windborne sand.

“Are you Gerald?”

“NO!” Smack! Gerald shrieked and Amelia’s tears sprayed like buckshot.

“Are you “Amelia?” “NO!” Slap!”

“Gerald? Amelia? Gerald?” again and again he asks, he slaps and he vents his rage. Amelia’s tears flung left and right, Gerald’s defiant “No’s” and his resolve steadfast, until he could go on no further. Only then did both Gerald and Amelia break down and cry.

“I’m Gerald! I’m Amelia! I am Gerald and I am Amelia!” Gerald screamed and Amelia’s tears fell. Then Gerald-Amelia stooped to pick up the hem of her skirt and pulled down her panties.
 
 
Scene XIX: Murphy’s Law
 
 
After order returned - after Jack had grabbed Spike by the collar and wheeled him in - the detective began to arrest Katherine. He pulled out his cuffs from his back pocket and began reading the rights granted to her by the Constitution. The constitution that Spike had shown no regard for when he had assaulted Gerald. Now he was the bad guy!

A shame he now felt. The same sense of shame he saw on Molly’s face. Now he felt the same quiver of his lip. Now his eyes sought forgiveness showing repentance for the crime. Now it was he who lamented, for getting involved in this whole stinking mess. Only it was too late for that. The damage had already been done.

He looked at Gerald. His face red, his lip cut, his tears drowning out his eyes. He didn’t feel sorry for him or pity him, but he did envy him just a little. Gerald was free to cry.

Murphy understood the law and he knew justice. Spike had won the confession and caught the bad guy because he knew the two were too often not the same. Nonetheless that didn’t give him the right to take the law in his own hands. All he needed to do was have the boy examined to determine his true gender.

Instead he had forsaken the law and unleashed Spike to extract his justice, and now all Jack’s good work was going to cost him. Maybe jail, maybe his badge. If he was lucky maybe just a demotion, his good record shot to hell. Only nothing in this case was turning out like it should and he probably wouldn’t be so lucky.

Murphy’s Law, anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. This was just one of those cases. All the telltale signs were there from the start. As the line he had cast began to unfurl, he should have seen it was tied to his own foot.

Though sadly, he hadn’t listened. Not to Bill Turner, not to Cecil, not to his own good sense. He had only listened to his Spike - his pride — that part of him which compelled him to continue the pursuit no matter the cost. Now the unfurling line he had cast was going to pull him down beneath the deep blue sea. While above him safely on deck was Katherine, waving her cheerful good-bye. If ever he needed to figure an angle short of turning his back on the crime it would have to come quick.

After Katherine had acknowledged her rights, he was about to slap on the cuffs when Gerald grabbed onto his wrist, his long red nails piercing the soft, pliable underside to anchor his grip. He stared menacingly at the boy, both cheeks still reddened with his hand prints, a trickle of blood falling from his lip. Gerald stared back then moved in and stood between Katherine and Jack.

“I am not Gerald. Gerald is gone. Dead! I buried him an’ my past, and I’m happy I done it. Katherine is my ma. I’m her Amelia! If you say I’m not, then I’m nobody. I’m just nameless and purposeless, a thing that will never again be more than I is right now. I got me an identity now! A purpose! Somethin’ I ain’t ever had before. I’m complete, not broken. That’s what Katherine done for me. She rescued me, and she ain’t forced me to do nothin’. I’m now what I want’ah be and what I done I done to myself!”

“So if you be thinkin’ it’s a crime to kill the boy I never was then arrest me. I committed the crime. Just leave my mama along!”

Spike looked none to happy, though it hardly mattered. Murphy was in charge now. A man with a need to work his way out of the mess without any more harm to himself.

Of course he knew Katherine had no right to turn him into a girl whether he consented to it or not. However, when you take into consideration how the boy felt and all the psychiatrists who’ll no doubt team up in support, what judge was going to hold her to account? Especially in light of what Spike just did. Somehow he figured the merits of the case weren’t going to have quite the same legs that Gerald’s assault charges would have against him. Besides, the facts of the case were not at all as he once believed them to be.

The truth is he had come to arrest Katherine having convinced himself he had uncovered a horrendous crime. Now he was going to leave knowing he had been wrong. Gerald hadn’t been bartered nor had he been forced to do anything. He was simply a prisoner of his own biology from which Katherine helped manage his escape. It was quite clear to him now. This had been Gerald’s journey, not Katherine’s.

Yes, flesh is elastic, malleable and can be configured as you wish. Male to female, church-marm to bimbo and degree matters not. “But the person you are inside can only be determined by you!” Now, thanks to Katherine his biology and his person were one in the same. His identity, one of his own choosing. He was Amelia, and forever, Katherine’s daughter.

He backed away and turned toward Molly to help her up. “Come along, Ms. Carver, I know a bar where a fella and a fine young woman such as yourself and partake in a bit or refreshment. What’cha say, ol’girl?”

“Molly wiped away her tears, stood up straight and braved a smile. “Somethin’ close by I’m a hopin’, Mr. Murphy.”

Together they started to leave, pausing only for a moment to watch mother and daughter embrace before closing the front door behind. All things considered, he thought of it as a pretty fair accounting of justice served. Clearly the transformation of Gerald into a girl had also managed to transform the divided boy into an undivided man. Then he shrugged, turned away and thought to himself, “Yeah, well, perhaps it had for me too!”

Jack had just pulled out and was already halfway down the street when behind him he saw a Checkered Cab pull up in front of Katherine’s home. He stopped, looked out his rear view mirror and saw Romano (Sally) getting out. Romano walked around in front of his cab, leaned back against the hood and began to fidget with a pink envelope he held in his hand. As if to study it one final time before he stuffed it in his back pocket. Then with that lopping gait of a restless James Dean he walked toward the house.

Romano looked pretty confident, like a man who knew his way around. He paused only long enough to slide a hand down his pants to adjust himself. Then after combing back his slicked back pompadour, he walked up the steps and right through that door as if he belonged there — As if he owned the place — As if he owned the people inside!

Spike slammed the steering wheel with his fists. “The low-life, the scum,” he cursed under his breath. “I thought they were going to lock this guy up. Shit, does the guy have nine lives or something? Well, at least this bad guy wouldn’t be slipping through my fingers. Not with an arrest warrant for Grand Thief. I’ll get my collar.”

He backed up to the curb, turned the engine off and with one foot already out the door Spike said to Molly, “Hold tight, Sugar! I’ll be right back.”

It was late, already past dusk when Murphy spotted him, but it was Spike who went in after him . . .

         “Only The Lonely,” Roy Orbison, Monument Records,  © 1960.

         “Annie Hall,” TM & C @ 1977, United Artists Pictures, lic. MGM.
 
 
Acknowledgment: I would like to gratefully acknowledge cs. for her editorial support, guidance and infinite wisdom, all dispensed with a heart as large as her titanic talent. Thank you cs, you represent all the best our community has to offer. (*_*)

 ©2008 by josie. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.

xxx

Murphy's Law Book II: Red Harvest Part I: Scenes I-IV By Josie Jack Murphy once again delves into the murky underworld to find a missing girl. Armed with only his dry-wit and cynicism, he journeys to a quiet little farm town called Waterston. It’s a beautiful place, renown for its cherries and the orchards that dotted the landscape against the rolling green hills beyond. But it’s also a world where the hunter becomes the hunted and where the forces of good collide with the evil cloaked in the myth and mysticism of an ancient belief. It’s also a place where some find "the Red Harvest sinfully wild to enjoy, while others find nothing more than disappointment and regret . . ."

“Yes,” his mother had agreed, “the blossoms are beautiful and later will come the harvest of the sweet fruit, sinfully wild to enjoy. Except for greedy little boy’s who suffer a bellyache from the sin of overindulging,” she'd tease, "and of course the crow who in their lust for the blood red fruit breach the pit. So keep in mind there’s disappointment and regret beneath the beauty and the bounty of the Red Harvest as well.”
 

 
 
Scene I: Jack Murphy’s New Partner
 
 
Brooklyn, New York

April 3^rd, 1963

Jack slowly hobbled his way across the parade field on his crutches, just as obstinate as ever and still clinging to that pig-headed notion of self-sufficiency. That step-swing-step glide made for a tough commute no matter how you cut it, especially for a man like Jack Murphy. A man who prided himself on getting things done, and the unassisted miles he had put on those size 12, EE shoes.

He caught up with Abe Monday just moments before the ceremony was to begin. To his right stood Arina and Michelle, behind him the 3rd precinct looking their finest dressed in parade blues.

“Better late then never huh, Jack?” Abe nudged his friend, his attention focused on the events unfolding on stage.

Leaning forward on his crutches Jack peered around Abe’s large frame and silently acknowledged Michelle, returning her smile. The look in her eyes told him all he need know. She was safe, happy and once again whole, no longer caught in the twilight, hovering between this world and Vlady’s dark world of hatred and deceit.

He warmly embraced Arina’s smile as well. He was glad to see she had finally found her footing. It had been no less a struggle for her, nor would the wounds be easy to mend. Like so many other wrongs in this world, those wounds were left for time alone to heal.

“Broken femur, remember Abe?” Jack leaned down and tapped his cast.

“Huh, you wouldn’t happen to be looking for a little sympathy, would yah, you ornery ol’coot?” Abe cracked a smile.

“I would if I thought you had any to give out, Meathead.”

“Tsk, tsk,” Abe followed his lead. “There you go calling me a Meathead when I was just about ready to offer you a job.”

“You offering or were you planning on leaving without me?” Jack relied. His dry, dead-pan expression unchanged throughout as the Mayor delivered the final words of his address and the honor guard raised their guns in salute.

“I’m offering. Are you taking?” Abe managed to get out between the thunderous rounds.

Jack smiled then looked up at Cecil, now shaking hands with the list of local dignitaries. “He looks good up there, doesn’t he?” Jack looked on with some pride.

“He ought to. He had one hell of a role model.”

“Well, least I got him to swear off them jelly donuts. That ought to account for something.”

“The kid took one giant leap for mankind and has won the Medal of Honor. Yeah, sure, it had to be the jelly donuts!” Abe smirked and Jack paid him no mind as he watched the Commissioner award Cecil his medal followed by a pair of Sergeant’s stripes for both Arn and himself. Cecil’s to accompany his promotion to detective, and Arn’s to take with him into retirement.

“So, what about it?” Abe finally turned to face his hobbled friend on crutches.

Jack thought for a moment then replied with an expression almost as oblique as his sidelong glance. “Know what I’m thinking about, buddy?”

“No, tell me.” Abe took the bait.

“I’m thinking about a nice little place with a cherry orchard round back. You got something like that you’re willing to offer?”

“You mean someplace out in the countryside where a guy can grow old, fat and lazy like me?”

“Sure, leastwise that’s how I envisioned it. Maybe I’ll get me one of those plump little Romanian housemaids too.”

“One without the fangs, right?”

“Well now, that might not be so bad. Look what that Transylvanian bloodsucker did for Arn. He looks younger. He’s definitely carrying around a lot bigger smile and he hasn’t been this sober in twenty years.”

Abe laughed. “You know, Jack, I think I finally found the guy I should have married.”

“You think so?” Jack made a bit of a face.

“Yup! We’d have been the perfect odd couple.”

“Felix was the quirky one, right?” Jack played with the thought.

“Quirky? Hell, they were both nuts.”

“Yeah, well, that much fits. By the way,” Jack led into his next round of tortured thought. “That job you’re offering. It wouldn’t happen to be for a Meter Maid would it? Cause I wouldn’t want to disappoint. Honestly, I don’t think I can do the skirt and heels thing. At least not up to the same award winning standard Cecil managed to pull off.”

“You’ll learn, Jack!” Abe throw his arm around his hobbled friend’s shoulder. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go see if we can roust us up a vamp with enough of a bite to get you into those Meter Maid heels.”

“I guess I’m going to need me some longer crutches.” Jack smiled then started out with Abe keeping pace with his step-swing-step glide.
 

 
 
The patrol car radio crackled to life as Jack approached the intersection. He leaned in, reached for the radio and responded with his location. It was a general call coming from outside his designate area of operation, but waited through the long burst of static regardless, to see if anyone would pick up the call.

“That’s a 411, isn’t that us?” Cecil inquired, though carefully. The last thing he wanted was to trip over Murphy’s short fuse.

“No, it’s Harrington’s,” he managed to get out before the follow up from dispatch came through directing his unit to respond.

“Wishful thinking,” replied Cecil as he flipped on the siren and the red light.

Jack negotiated the speeding squad car through the heavy traffic with practiced precision while Cecil fastened his belt, eased back in his seat and took stock of the man sitting behind the wheel. His focus was intense and the lines on his face were illuminated by the alternate flashes of amber and red. And that’s how he saw him.

“One day everything you touch glows golden amber, the next foreboding red of things gone wrong. The job is a trial in progress, not a decision,” that much he knew. It’s a test of character not decided by wins, but how you bounce back from the losses. Only the finest raise to the top in this war, and that’s what defined Jack Murphy.

“He isn’t perfect,” but in his eyes, “Jack Murphy will always be the guy I’d want on my side, no matter the outcome.”

“. . . Well, you sure didn’t win yourself no favors downtown, that’s for certain,” Jack’s voice cut into his thoughts. “It took a big set to say what you did, and the way I see it, you ought to be wearing that with some pride.”

Cecil sat back in the seat monitoring their progress while trying his best to keep his emotions in check. If he was feeling that pride it would have been hard to tell from the cool indifference he wore on his face. Sure it was a winning concession followed by the time-honored punch to the forearm delivered by a man whose opinion he wholly respected. It was notable praise to be sure, but even as a rookie he knew in this line of work you wore your stripes on the sleeves, not your feelings.

“A left here, Lieutenant,” Cecil called out with the new found sense of confidence that only comes with proving you’re made of the right stuff.

They had just left the Commissioner’s office where the Kline case hearing had been held and were now traveling east on Delaney a little more than a half-mile from the Tremont address. The area was out of Jack’s usual bailiwick and given his druthers would have preferred someone else pick up the call. Unfortunately Harrington was busy, and as he was the only other crime scene investigator available in the area at the time, he hadn’t the luxury. “I told yah Cecil. The name’s Jack, please.”

”Yeah, okay, thanks Jack!” Cecil smiled.

”For what?” Jack sounded rather annoyed.

“For the opportunity. You know, to . . .” he fought to find the words, “to prove myself.”

“You’ve earned it, Cecil. Don’t downgrade what you did.” Jack made a hard left and then raced down 143rd until he saw the gathered crowd, the ambulance and the bevy of patrol cars parked at the scene. He found a place to park across the street, shut down the old black and white cruiser then turned toward Cecil. “Look Cecil! No one expected you to say diddly-squat at the hearing, but the fact that you did shows me a lot.”

“Yes I did!” Cecil replied with a fistful of defiance. “Captain Turner was wrong. Dead wrong, and he was lying through his teeth.”

“Yeah, well, thanks buddy. If you hadn’t stepped in I would’ve been shark bait for sure.”

“Nah, besides, Gerald dropped the assault charges anyway.”

“Amelia!” Jack corrected.

“Gerald, Amelia, whomever! The point is there was nothing there, except disobeying Turner’s supposed cease and desist order that I knew was a lie. It’s just like I said to the Commissioner,” he added as if feeling the need to recount his testimony.

“I asked Turner how he felt about the merits of the case on the very day it all came down. He stated his opinion and I listened. I then asked him why he didn’t just order you to drop the case if he was convinced it was a dead end.”

“I’m not sure what I expected him to say,” Cecil followed, “but it sure wasn’t that. I mean imagine the nerve it takes to look a fella in the eye and say, ‘No, I want him to stew in his own juices. It’ll taste better.’ He was cool as a cucumber when he said it too. Like some voodoo witch doctor thrusting a pin into your back.”

There was a long silent pause followed by the sound of Jack sucking in a lung full of air, then slowing releasing the gut full of tension that had been building up. “I just said the truth. That’s my job, right, to tell the truth?”

“Don’t worry kid, the Commissioner saw you weren’t trying to grease your own skids. Still, it took some moxy to say it, and you oughta be damn proud of it.” Jack made his peace and reached out to shake his hand to seal the deal. Then with a slight, self-assured grin he asked, “No more jelly donuts?”

“Nope! Gave them up. They fatten you up like a porker and my mama didn’t teach me to grow up to be a pig.”

Jack smiled, slipped on his fedora and opened the door, “Come on partner, let’s me and you go do us some investigating.” Only this time, he promised himself, he was going to let this case come to him.
 
 
Scene II: The Crime Scene
 
 
Jack and Cecil were greeted by a patrolmen standing guard to secure the scene. The area was cordoned off and his partner was standing some feet away talking with a gentleman and an elderly lady while the medical examiner awaited his arrival.

“Detectives?” the officer enquired.

“Yes, Jack Murphy, 4th precinct. This here is Cecil Benover, my assistant. Are you the OIC?”

“Yes Sir, Marvin Costanza, 3rd precinct,” he replied, only he was looking past him, giving Cecil the once over, his expression slightly askew.

Jack knew the look. He had seen it before on the faces of those who’d stare and wonder how a fidgety little guy half their size could land such a plum job. Fact is, the scrutiny was almost expected. As expected as what he knew was coming next.

“Ben-over?” the patrolman framed his response in such a way that anyone within ear shot couldn’t help but insinuate the missing “d.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack fired off, “just like you’re going to be doing once I tag you with a fat lip, moron.” Jack palmed his fedora, adjusted the rim and followed quite calmly, “Now, officer Costanza, if you will kindly tell me what you’ve got here.”

“You tell me,” Costanza sounded off, a tad irate. “We arrived at the scene at 5:15 approximately 10 minutes after receiving the emergency call from Mr. Turley,” he said with a nod toward the man who was talking with his partner. “He lives in the apartment building across the street and states he was in the process of closing a bedroom window when he heard a scream, looked round and saw the victim terminating her aerial gymnastics.”

“Yeah, so, why call homicide?” Jack looked up, spotted the curtain blowing out of the fifth floor window of the old brownstone, then down at the covered body sprawled out on the sidewalk directly below.

“Patience Lieutenant, you haven’t heard the punch line. It seems about a minute after witnessing the fall he saw a female run out of the building and jump into red, 58 Chevy Bel-Air coupe with a white top. He described her as young, Caucasian, 5-7, 5-8, thin, bosomy with shoulder length black hair. She was wearing a long black skirt and a white blouse.”

“Now here’s the kicker,” Costanza added. “He says the woman was in such a hurry to leave that she apparently stepped on the gas before releasing the emergency brake. When she finally did release the brake the car lurched forward, jumped the curb and smashed into the parking sign.” Again he nodded, only this time toward the pole with a sign resting on the ground alongside the shattered glass of a headlamp.

“He sounds pretty sure about the make of the car,” Jack replied.

“He should. He’s a mechanic. He works at the Chevrolet garage on 85th.”

“Well that oughta do it. You put an APB on the car?”

“Yes, they’re looking for it now.”

Jack again looked up and asked, “You’ve got the apartment sealed off?”

“Yes, I’ve got it cordoned off with a patrolman at the door.”

“I don’t see anyone from forensics. They show up yet?”

“Nope, they’re busy cleaning up Harrington’s mess. Dispatch has diverted a back up unit and they’re on the way.”

Jack spotted Henry Snyder, the attending Medical Examiner completing his paper work alongside the body. “Hey, Henry, enjoying the spring weather?”

“I’ve seen better, Murph, and you?”

“Not bad, actually. I got me a new polka partner. I’ve been working on that seven-step, schottische-style.”

“Geeze, don’t tell me some crazed Nazi dentist has got you by the testicles too?” Henry dished out a plate of his usual deadpan wit. Although it did come with a rather broad grin, which on the whole, suited the man quite well. Maintaining a sense of humor is important in his line of work and Henry was no exception. After all, he had just taken quite a licking from that two-timing dentist he had been married to. Only a year into his third marriage and the cheap German import had gotten away with everything but his socks in the divorce settlement.

“I said polka, Henry, not Goose Step.”

“Hey, if I had known those gold-capped teeth weren’t hers before I married her maybe I might still have my balls.” Jack laughed and slapped his old friend on the back before getting back to the uncomfortable business at hand. “Well, what do you have for me, my friend?”

“Hum, well, the way I’ve got it figured it was a first rate plunge. Head first!”

“You found any lacerations, bruises, abrasions, contusions or 38 caliber bullet holes otherwise not accounted for?”

“Nah, looks like a routine Swan dive. By the looks of it, I’d say she scored a perfect 10. Can I bag her up?”

“Yeah, sure, you got a name?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot the introduction,” he replied while unzipping the body bag. “Jack Murphy, meet Sonya Pavel. 58 years old, 5-9, approximately 145 pounds, brown hair, green eyes, Caucasian and it would seem, still maidenly.” Other than the slightly askew symmetry, I’d say she was in reasonably good health, and fairly good looking.

“Maidenly, at 58?” Jack enquired.

“Not much of a social life I guess. You need any 8 by 10 glossies?”

“No, but I could use something along the lines of an anti-acid. You got anything in your bag, doc?” Henry turned toward Cecil, put his arm around his shoulder and told him, “Look out for this ornery ol’coot. I think he might be losing the stomach for the job.”

A few moments later he walked over toward Costanza’s partner. Beside him stood Marie Donizetti, the building super, and Gene Turley, the gentleman who had witnessed the fall and called for emergency assistance.

He introducing himself then took Mr. Turley aside and listened attentively as he repeated the story he had told the patrolman. He seemed a very thorough and competent eye-witness. He even managed to expand on his previous recollection of the woman he had seen running from the building. Upon further reflection he decided she wasn’t “running” out of the building. Rather, she was walking at a quickened pace with long strides and a rather masculine gait.

“Athletic?”

“From the way she moved, yeah, I’d say she was someone who was strong and agile.”

“That’s a pretty strong description considering you only got a momentary glimpse of her.”

“I was looking down right at her. See there?” he pointed to his apartment window directly across the street one story up. “I had me a birds-eye view.”

“Think you could pick her out of a line-up?”

“Well now, I didn’t say she was looking up at me.”

“Hm, well, come to think of it, no you didn’t. Although you did say you heard a scream as the victim fell, right Mr. Turley?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Turley, because timing is everything?”

“Dead certain!”

“Well let’s see now. You said it took you a moment before you were able to spot the falling victim after you heard the scream. Since it takes approximately 2.1 seconds to complete a 50 foot fall I’d say you reacted pretty darn quickly.

“So?” Mr. Turley sounded off. “What’s the difference?” he followed defensively.

“Plenty, Mr. Turley! Screaming out before the fall might mean she wasn’t exactly looking forward to the experience. So now, please tell me again. Did you hear the scream before or during the fall? Just don’t tell me it was after.”

“After? What’s with the attitude, officer?” He snapped back. “I’m giving you the square deal.”

“Because it’s important that the lady lying over there gets a square deal too,” Jack replied, not backing down an inch.

“Yeah, well, sure” the gentleman backed off and moderated his tone, “I guess I ain’t really all that certain. It could have been before.”

“Fine, Mr. Turley. If I need further information I’ll be in touch.” He concluded his questioning and was walking back toward Mrs. Donizetti, the building Super, when he saw a forensic van pull up.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Donizetti. I’m Lieutenant Murphy with NYPD and this is my partner, Cecil Benover. May I call you Marie?”

“Please, detective.”

“Fine, now I wonder if I might ask you to accompany me upstairs.” He dismissed the patrolmen and took up the dear woman’s hand. Then along with Cecil they followed the forensic team into the building. Cecil with his notebook in hand taking scrupulous notes, and Jack listening to Mrs. Donizetti reminisce about her recently deceased tenant as they worked their way up the stairs.

Marie Donizetti turned out to be a rather spry woman with a healthy set of lungs, at least for a 68 year old. She maintained a constant flow of chatter as the trio wound their way up the 5 flights. A steep and strenuous climb as the stairs tended to be in those old 20’s era brownstones. She was also quite animated, and if she was feeling the strain of just seeing her tenant and friend fall to her death, she had a funny way of showing it.

While the forensic team went through the apartment Jack sat down in the kitchen to continue his talk with Mrs. Donizetti. She had quite a bit to say about the deceased Sonya Pavel, whose actual first name was Oana. Sonya being an adapted name she had assumed after she emigrated from Communist Romania, supposedly to help ease the transition to a new life in America. Or so she had told the dear Mrs. Donizetti.

“She was a good tenant and friend,” Mary Donizetti began. “She worked very hard to make her way, starting out with nothing more than the clothes she wore when she arrived in this country. Not an easy course for anyone. Yet all the time I knew her she remained full of hope and optimism. She was not the woman you see laying out there in the street.”

“Where were you when it happened, Mrs. Donizetti?”

“Out shopping I am afraid. I returned just shortly before you arrived, Mr. Murphy.”

“She lived alone, is that correct?” He followed up.

“Yes, I suppose her life was such that the dear woman never had time to find someone to share the burden.”

“You mean in terms of intimate relationships, correct Mrs. Donizetti?”

“Yes, though she was pretty enough and her English was passable despite her heavy Romanian accent. I don’t think that was the problem. Although,” she added after giving it further thought. “It might have limited her circle of acquaintances. As it was, outside myself there were few who truly knew her.”

To further complicate Sonya’s life she had a teenaged daughter named Michelle who no longer lived with her. Mrs. Donizetti didn’t know Michelle by any other name, so she assumed she must have been born in this country and thus, given an American name.

“She wasn’t her birth child certainly, correct Marie?”

“Oh dear, well Sonya never said she wasn’t so I just assumed . . .” she tried to explain. “Although I suppose it was rather naíve of me to not have figured that out myself. Michelle hadn’t her looks at all. Don’t misunderstand. Sonya was quite pretty, but Michelle was unique in that regard.”

“She must have been a lovely girl,” he offered a sympathetic smile.

“Yes, I’m afraid I have no other words to describe her. She had an exceptional beauty, but she was also deeply troubled.”

“Troubled?”

“Yes. You see, she suffered from a debilitating mental condition. Her behavior was difficult to manage and even harder to predict. One moment she was like the essence of life itself and the next, withdrawn, sullen and lost to this world.”

“What about school?”

“Oh, she managed well for a period of time, but when she reached the age when a girl begins to . . .” she paused, then with a blush, “Well, I’m certain you understand, Mr. Murphy.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that sort of thing does happen.”

“I suppose. I know many girls experience that sort of thing, but honestly, not quite like that.”

A member of the forensic team interrupted their conversation and asked that Jack accompany him into the bedroom. Jack thanked Mrs. Donizetti for her help and told her he would be in touch if he needed any further information. He gave Cecil a nudge wanting him to accompany Mrs. Donizetti back down the stairs and then followed the investigator into the bedroom.

On the windowsill he was shown a clearing of dust where someone had sat, a palm imprint on each side. Proof that Sonya Pavel had fallen from that window, and with no signs of a struggle, proof that she sat on that narrow ledge, screamed then executed the Swan dive exactly as planned. That explanation of course didn’t negate the possibility she might have been offered a slight nudge before hand.

There was something else to consider as well. On the bed a closet full of clothes had been piled high as if someone in a moment of rage had just ripped them off the hangers and tossed them about. It was a sign that there had been some preceding event at the root of it all. The evidence did show that she had set herself up for the jump, but not necessarily unaided nor without a traumatic event preceding it.

No suicide note had been found and nothing else appeared touched. That would include some loose cash sitting on top of the bureau and a jewelry box filled with a modest selection of jewelry. Not much, but enough for someone to snatch if robbery were a motive.

“So where did the hurried woman seen exiting the building fit into this?” he wondered. “Assuming she had a role to play, it had to be someone important enough in her life to allow her inside her home, perhaps even into this very room. Someone very close, whose words were stinging and hurtful,” he speculated. Then as the timing of events seemed to show, “it was only after her departure that the devastated woman took her own life. So then, who was the unknown woman?”

“An intimate perhaps, a woman who might have even shared her bed that Mrs. Donizetti didn’t know about? A scorned lover like that would certainly fit the bill, but the woman seen leaving the building was young, and it would be hard keeping the perimeters of that kind of relationship sight unseen.”

“She did have a daughter, though not a child by birth. Nor was she living with her any longer. Still, as the evidence would seem to show a ‘troubled’ daughter did fit the criteria possibly better than any other plausible explanation.” In fact, he wholly expected he’d find her daughter hanging on to the end of this thread before he was through. His analysis of the scene was then interrupted by the patrolman who had been posted at the front door.

“Detective Murphy, they’ve located the car abandon. It belongs to a Michael Chapmen, 2306 East Sanger. We’ve already questioned the kid, but he’s covered.”

”It’s solid?”

“I’d say so. He had reported the car stolen at 9 A.M this morning after finding it missing when he woke up. The ignition switch had been pulled as well.”

“Yeah, well, I guess that covers it.”

“We’re running the car for prints. Do you want us to detain the kid?”

“No reason to take the kid in, but I’ll need to have a look around and meet him. Give the patrolmen on site a call and tell them I’ll be there in 30 minutes after I finish up here.”

“Michael Chapman! So much for an easy fix,” he sighed, paused a moment to think it through, then set off to have a last look around. Sitting on top a bureau he found two pictures. One appeared to be of Sonya and her daughter, Michelle. The other was of her daughter and some unknown woman. He asked a member of the forensics team to catalogue the items before stuffing them into a protective envelop to take with him.

A moment later he was on his way to meet Michael Chapman. A Michael Chapman with a girlfriend or a wife, perhaps related to Sonya, he was most anxious to meet.
 
 
Scene III: Michael Chapman
 
 
Michael Chapman lived in a tenement on Sanger. On the whole, the brownstone tenements that lined the streets for miles in both directions were old and in some cases, dying remnants of the proud middle class who once lived there. The graffiti and the occasional boarded up window spoke to the decline. As did the crowd of chronically unemployed sitting on the tenement steps up and down the street. The stoop next door included, but not on Michael Chapman’s.

Unlike the others, his tenement remained uniquely untouched by vagrants, vandals or blight. This in itself seemed nothing short of a miracle, especially since the newly refurbished building he lived in seemed such a likely target. The refinished stone and woodwork restored to its original luster looked as well presented as any seen on the upper Westside. Even the potted yellow geraniums that sat on the stoop seemed immune to the urban decay that was eating the rest of the neighborhood alive.

Even more amazing, not only did those who lived in the street keep a respective distance from his home, but apparently extended that privilege to his car as well. Yes, it had been stolen, but it had been left abandon just a few short blocks away. Left entirely intact, tires included. Now if that couldn’t be called divine intervention, Jack didn’t know what could.

When Jack and Cecil arrived they found the two patrolmen waiting in front of the building as ordered. Jack asked the patrolmen to recount the details of the interview and was told Michael Chapman was 19, worked as a musician and was single. The evening before Michael had returned home late from work. When he woke up at 9 A.M he found his car missing. A stolen car report had been filed, but as these things go, the system was so over taxed that nothing had as yet been done to locate the missing vehicle.

“I’d say he’s pretty lucky.” Jack replied. “Has he seen the car yet?”

“No, we told him the car was being printed and would be returned to him once we’re done.”

“Has anyone spoken to him about the condition of the car?”

“No, but then he didn’t ask either.” Jack asked Cecil to remain with the patrolmen and went in to talk with the boy.

Michael greeted Jack at the door. He was dressed in a brown bathrobe that draped down to the top of his sandals. With a hood and long bell sleeves, the robe looked the sort of thing you’d envision a monk might wear. And in a like manner, the robe buried all but his face beneath its thick wool weave.

An interesting face it was too. If a person’s worth were appraised by your looks, this kid would have been Fort Knox. He’s face was lean with smooth clean lines and a shadowy hollow beneath the cheek bones. His lips were rich and full, and the arch of his brows swept like wings over a pair of emerald green eyes that refused to let you go. Those eyes, that face looked as if drawn in soft pastels by a stroke of an artist’s brush that reached from his smooth, unblemished chin to the top of his clean shaven head.

It was hard to think of him as handsome or masculine or even feminine for that matter. Rather he looked like something that hovered about in a twilight world between.

“Mr. Chapman, what a pleasure to meet you. I’m detective Murphy from NYPD and I’m here to report we’ve located your vehicle.” He punctuated with a smile, though ever so slightly smug. “May I,” he asked with his fedora in hand pointing the way inside.

“Oh sure, come in detective, please.” Michael led him into a tidy and well appointed living room with Scandinavian-style white furnishing. All rather chic and modern with delicate white lace curtains covering the one window. On the wall adjacent the couch hung a large, handcrafted tapestry.

The tapestry was blood red in color with an intricate weave of old world patterns about the edges. Centering the tapestry was a medieval cathedral scene with a large man in black standing in front. About his shoulders he wore a cape with a high, stiff collar that rose up to frame the back of his head. In one hand he held a shield, in the other a spear. It was quite an intriguing bit of artistry. Very old, hand stitched and dyed, and all seemingly constructed in such a way that it drew Jack’s focus inward toward the man’s eyes that seemed to follow him wherever he traveled throughout the room.

Michael sat down upon the sofa while Jack chose to remain standing to have his look around. Still fidgeting with his fedora clasped in his hands.

“You know, you’re a very fortunate young man,” he smiled and wagged a finger as if lecturing the boy. “I mean, someone steals your car, returning it a few hours later and leaves it almost where he found it.”

“Now, that’s what I call good fortune, young man,” he added as he walked toward the window to have a look at those lovely curtains.

“Though I see you’ve had your share of good luck already.” He muttered while gently caressing the delicate lace with the tips of his fingers. They were also hand stitched, the delicate lacework sewn in a pattern of connecting white blossoms.

“Cherry blossoms?” he wondered. They certainly felt no less fragile, and like the tapestry, as out of place as the young man beneath the medieval robe. Nor had it escaped him that everything was neat, clean and orderly. Not how you’d expect to find the apartment of a 19 year old boy.

“Odd,” or so the disconnect appeared to him, becoming even more apparent when he peered down upon the street below. The contrast was inescapable. The maelstrom of poverty and crime had consumed everything in its path, yet somehow had bypass this kid and the tenement he lived in.

He found it all rather “suspect,” and then some, that much he felt sure, and if the kid wasn’t male with a clean shaven head and a solid alibi he’d already have him marked as the prime suspect in this case.

In the past he might have done so regardless. Act now and ask questions later. That had been Jack’s philosophy, but not anymore. He’d promised himself he wasn’t going to fall into that trap of rushing to judgment again. It was wrong, dead wrong, and no matter how much he hungered to nail this kid, Jack would resist the temptation. As far as he was concerned, if there was a case here to be made, it would definitely have to come to him.

“You’ve a very lovely apartment, I must say.” He again turned his attention to the boy.

“Thank you, detective.”

“Not like my place. Oh no,” he chuckled. “Shoot, I’ve had the same pots and dishes piled up in the sink for a week, and Rosco, my cat, sheds even worse than me,” he lowered his head and ran his hand over the bald spot on the back.

“You know, many a morning I wake up, look in the mirror and say to myself, ‘Darn, what I would give to have a full head of hair again.’ Then there’s you . . .” he made a bit of a face, “a young guy who could probably grow a head full of healthy shoulder length black hair near over night and what do you do? You shave your head. Funny world, ain’t it?”

“I’m a musician,” Michael replied while pointing to a guitar case sitting in the corner.

“Ah, then I guess that explains it. A musician! Well, you know, if we had never met up and I saw you on the street I think I could peg you as one. I mean, you look like you’ve got talent. You’ve the copyright looks too. Bet you’re quite the hit with the girls?”

Michael didn’t answer, but he did look off modestly. “Perhaps,” Jack took note, “with a tint of a blush?”

“Well, I’ll not bother you any longer. I just thought I’d stop by as a courtesy. We in the precinct pride ourselves in being good servants to the community and we want you to know we appreciate your support. Say . . .,” he suddenly piped up as if struck by a sudden revelation.

“Would you mind if I were to add your name of the list of those willing to donate to the Policemen’s Children’s fund? We like to remind the good citizens in the community a small measure of prevention serves us all in the long run.”

“No, not at all, detective.”

“Fine, fine, that’s quite a magnanimous gesture. I’m sure all the needy kiddies will be so happy to hear that. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he concluded, then reached out to take the boy’s hand, noticing his nicely manicured set of nails. Not long, but pampered well enough. Couple that with callous-free finger tips and it was easy enough to tell he had been wrapping those fingers around something, and it sure wasn’t the neck of a guitar.

He turned to leave then stopped and asked the question that was still on his mind. “Say, ahm, I forgot to ask. You didn’t by chance forget that you let your girlfriend borrow the car, did you?”

“No. You see, I have the only key right here,” he replied, and then picked up a set of keys from the nearby coffee table.

“Ah, so you do. Well then, other than being out some big bucks to repair the car I think you’re in pretty good shape.”

“No,” Michael seemed quite sure of himself, “no big expense. I had the left headlamp replaced before and it costs me next to nothing.”

“Huh,” Jack replied wondering how the boy could know that. “That’s alright, please don’t bother, I can find my own way out.”

A few moments later Jack was again outside. He dismissed the patrolmen, thanked them for their help then turned toward Cecil to ask the question that followed him like that haunting gaze of the man woven into the tapestry. “Well, what do you think?”

“What’s to wonder,” Cecil reasoned. He has a solid alibi. He’s not a girl with shoulder length black hair either.”

“Yeah, you’ve got that one nailed.” Jack agreed while disagreeing, knowing there had to be a tie. How else could the kid be so sure the repairs were going to cost him “next to nothing?” He hadn’t even seen the car. Or better yet, how could he know it was the left side that was damaged, not the right?

“Want to know what I think?” Jack asked.

“Sure do, Jack, what?”

“I think we should see who this kid plays with,” he replied, with the intensity and the tone of his voice suddenly ratcheted up a notch. “I’d like to know where he goes and does for the next week. I want you to sign out a surveillance van, park across the street over there and keep an eye on him. There isn’t a rear exit so it should be easy enough to cover. Meanwhile I’m going to see if Mrs. Donizetti can help me track down Sonya’s daughter. Although privately he felt whatever he found was going to lead him back to Michael’s door.
 
 
Scene IV: Arn Fife
 
 
The next morning Cecil returned to the office to draw up a surveillance plan as per department procedures. He presented his plan to the section chief and was assigned a case number, a vehicle and a partner from the Intelligence Gathering Unit. The chief then went on to explain the operational procedures.

“Your team will be required to report in with dispatch hourly. Plus a patrol car will be at your disposal should you require emergency assistance.” Then he read him the riot act. “If you return my van riddled with bullet holes, sonny boy, I’m going to plant my boot so far up your butt you’ll be coughing up leather.”

An hour later he drove to the department vehicle compound, signed out the van and met up with Arn Fife, the officer assigned to him. Arnold Fife, Arn for short, was a department veteran set for retirement in two weeks. The guy had spent the last 26 years of his life as a patrolman, having advanced to the grade of Sergeant for only one short stint. Not a particularly accomplished career for a gray haired, overfed, potted Irishman with an arthritic limp. Albeit one with the smell of cheap liquor on his breath who only by virtue of his longevity, just managed to hang on.

He knew the surveillance business though, and knew the operation of the van like the back of his hand.

“Now son, just take a deep breath, relax and let ol’Arn tell you how this thing here works.” he said as he wrapped an arm around Cecil’s shoulder. “You’re in good hands here, sonny,” he followed as he stepped into the back of the van, taking a seat next to a viewing portal.

“This here is the heart of the operation,” he followed, lighting up like a kid in a candy store. “From here you’ve got your telescopics, photographics and your long range listening devices. Over there you’ve got your closet where you’ll find your various disguise, wigs, mustaches and whatnot. Right here is your communications,” he pointed to radio sitting next to him.”

“You know how to operate all this stuff?” Cecil breathed in wonderment as he scanned the array of goodies.

“Oh yeah, buddy,” he affirmed. “Just point me the way and I’ll be wrappin’ it up for you in a nice little portfolio of 8x10 glosses before supper time.”

Yep, Arn knew the surveillance business alright. He had Cecil chock-full of confidence as he drove to the site while Arn played with his toys in back. Or at least that’s what Cecil thought was going on in back as he drove to the site, scoped it out, then settling on what he thought was the best possible spot. The place he chose was across the street from Michael’s second floor window and adjacent to his car now parked just outside the building.

“What’cha think, Arn,” he called out to grab Arn’s attention, “close enough to the target?”

He waited a moment then repeated his call before crawling into the back only to find Arn draped over the seat where he had left him, stone-cold out of it. Peeking out of his crinkled coat pocket he saw the bottle cap of his favorite brand of Irish whiskey. “Damn,” he hissed, wondering if after 28 years on the force it might all come to that for him as well.

He left Arn to sleep it off and crawled back into the front cab. There he sat trying not to look too conspicuous as he peered up at the second floor window. Without field glasses he couldn’t pick up all that much detail. Nor was his vantage point all that good. Still, he did have a perfect view of the front entrance which is all he really needed. Michael wouldn’t be leaving without him noticing.

Comparatively speaking, he found Michael’s tenement somewhat of an anomaly to say the least. Right smack dab in the middle of this urban wasteland the building stood out like an act of defiance. Its refurbished stone and burgundy colored millwork as daring as those potted yellow geraniums that lined the front stoop. How it managed to survive in a place like this was indeed a wonder.

For the most part he found the morning pretty uneventful, finding himself measuring his time by the hourly passing of the patrol car and his periodic contact with dispatch. Still the excitement, the adrenalin-rush and the sound of Arn snoring kept him pretty much on his toes and ready for anything when Michael finally did make his appearance. He wasn’t all that difficult to spot either.

Dressed in a pair of hip hugging white linen bell-bottoms and a flaming pink windbreaker he definitely looked the part. “Tall, thin and pretty for a boy,” he thought.

“Pretty? Hum,” well why not muse over the possibilities. Anyone would when confronted by a boy dressed in pink and white. Pair that with matching gold hoops in his ears, a set of lips that seemed to go on forever and you have one extraordinary young man. He wasn’t someone Cecil was going to pass by on the street and not stare, and wonder, even with his spit-shine head.

“Musician’s,” he muttered.

Anyway Michael stood for a moment with his arms folded staring at the damage to the left front lamp. He seemed to have his mind set on what need to be done. A moment later he jumped into the car, fiddled with the damaged ignition switch then set off with Cecil following a blocks distance behind to a repair shop on Kingston.

Cecil parked some distance away, behind a line of autos in various states of disrepair waiting to be serviced. With the shop apparently as busy as it looked, he wondered how the boy could possibly expect to get the work done in a week, let alone an afternoon. Yet he watched the boy telling this huge guy in greasy coveralls what he wanted to have happen and sure enough, the man grinning ear to ear nearly tripped on himself getting the car inside to begin work immediately.

Cecil looked up and saw the name “Dimitru Bros. Auto Repair” that fronted the building and wondered if he knew the man or whether Michael had offered to pay for his services in gold bullion. Whatever it was, an hour later the mechanic was backing that car out of the garage with 3 men still attached putting the finishing touches to the custom wax job that apparently came with the job.

“Da-damn,” he stammered in disbelief as he watched the guy hold open the door, beckon Michael to step in, then made sure he was comfortably situated before closing the door behind. A moment later he stood back and waved goodbye, flashing those pearly whites as if seeing his first born off to his first day at school. Behind him his three helpers followed suit. Beaming and waving their polishing rags high in the air, bidding him a farewell.

“Quite a guy that Michael,” he mulled over the scene that had just played out. “No fault in that. He knew what he wanted and made it happen.”

He couldn’t help but admire the kid. He had everything working for him and couldn’t help but wonder what Jack saw in him that drew his suspicion. If he was thinking this kid could be involved in the death of Sonya Pavel, a more unlikely character couldn’t have been found.

Still he had a job to do, which he did with all the expertise of a seasoned pro as he followed Michael home with Arn still snoring in the back. After watching Michael reenter his apartment he found a spot close to the one he had vacated earlier, and then crawled into the back to roust up a cup of coffee for Arn as he awaited the boys next move.

Murphy's Law Book II: Red Harvest Part I: Scenes V-VIII By Josie Jack Murphy once again delves into the murky underworld to find a missing girl. Armed with only his dry-wit and cynicism, he journeys to a quiet little farm town called Waterston. It’s a beautiful place, renown for its cherries and the orchards that dotted the landscape against the rolling green hills beyond. But it’s also a world where the hunter becomes the hunted and where the forces of good collide with the evil cloaked in the myth and mysticism of an ancient belief. It’s also a place where some find "the Red Harvest sinfully wild to enjoy, while others find nothing more than disappointment and regret . . ."

 
 
Scene V: Mrs. Donizetti
 
 
The next morning Jack again went to see Mrs. Donizetti. Still early, she was dressed in her housecoat enjoying her morning coffee. Given her lack of preparedness, he worried she might think him rude for imposing at this hour. Though just as the day before, she greeted him with warm welcome and a syrupy smile that looked as sweet as the cherries she held in her hand. He returned her smile and with hat in hand asked if he might come in to finish the conversation they had begun the day before.

He found her to be a very open and personable woman, very easy to attach yourself to. Much like his dear mother, he supposed. She, like Marie Donizetti, was more or less an open book. There was nothing hidden beneath the veneer. Both women were supportive and faithful to both family and friends with strong attachments to their immigrant past, and the traditions and heritage they brought with them to this country.

He had strong ties to his mother. Which in large part might go a long way toward explaining why committing to relationships outside work and that which he had with his good friend Rosco, his cat, hadn’t panned out so well. That might also go a long way toward explaining the close connection between Marie Donizetti and Sonya Pavel. A woman who was herself still closely linked to the traditions and social workings so much a part of her past. Something Marie Donizetti couldn’t speak more highly about.

She poured him a cup of coffee then sat down beside him still latched on to those cherries. The tips of her fingers stained the same cherry red.

“Do you enjoy them?” he asked. “Cherries?” he then sought to clarify with a gesture toward her hands.

“Oh,” She looked down as if caught unaware she was still holding on to them. “One of my guilt pleasures,” she mused. “They are truly a divine fruit, don’t you think?”

“Yes ma’am, they are that. A bit early in the season for them though, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the local harvest isn’t for another week or two. These I think are from down south. I saw them in the store last night. Plump, dark, sweet . . . well, you know, I just couldn’t pass them up.”

“Would you like one, Mr. Murphy,” she held out her hand.

“No, thank you, I don’t fancy them as I once did. As a boy, I could sniff them out from a hundred feet and you’d be hard pressed to get me out of here until I ate every last one of them, but not anymore.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“Don’t know exactly. Maybe too many bellyaches. I’ve heard they’re none too healthy for the raven and crow either. Ravenous birds both. You see, the pit has cyanide and can be quite deadly if you breach the pit.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that.” She flushed as if afflicted by a tinge of guilt. “I guess in every little sin there is always a little disappointment and regret.”

“Huh!” Jack grumbled. “So they say,” he replied, thinking back to a time long ago when his mother had expressed the same sentiment.

“More coffee then, Mr. Murphy?”

“No, ma’am. As I’ve mentioned I’m here because I’m looking for anyone who might be able to help me find Sonya’s daughter, Michelle. It is important that she hear the unfortunate news from me before she stumbles upon it on her own.”

“That is very kind Mr. Murphy, but honestly, there were few who really know her all that well. For the most part her life revolved around her daughter and the small delicatessen where she worked. She was a cook, you know.” Marie Donizetti began reminiscing about her friend.

“Vlady told me she made some of the best Sarmale this side of Bucharest,” she carried on. “Sonya didn’t make a lot of money, but she paid her rent on time and had enough to make payments on an old upright Bechstein piano.”

“Vlady,” he asked, intrigued by the name that conjured up such interesting images. “Who’s Vlady?”

“Sanda Vladimirescu. Vlady was her pet name. Sonya met her at the delicatessen. She was a Doctor of Psychiatry back in Romania, a woman of great power and strength.”

“You don’t say.” he perked up. “That doesn’t sound like the kind of person you just bump into everyday, leastwise not at a delicatessen.”

“Well, it is a rather tight knit community and they did share so much in common, being fellow ex-patriots and all. They became close personal friends and with Michelle’s problems, it was a natural fit. Although . . .” Marie’s voice tailed off.

“What was that?” he urged.

“Nothing, it’s just that sometimes I got the impression that Vlady had more of a say in what happened in Sonya’s life than she had of her own.”

For some reason Marie’s composite picture of Sanda, or Vlady as she liked to call her, made him think about the picture he had taken from atop the bureau in Sonya’s bedroom. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the picture of Michelle and the unidentified woman and showed it to Marie.

“Is this her?” he asked as he again studied the tall, robust woman with broad shoulders and thick muscular limbs that would have looked as well on a man. She was dressed in a gray pencil skirt with matching blazer that looked rather stiff and regimented. With her black, Jack style knee boots and her silver gray hair formed into a bun, she looked the sort who could manager herself quite well. Not to mention the gaunt, anemic looking 16 year old standing as if at attention at her side.

“Yes, that’s Vlady. She’s well respected in her profession I’m told. She was once in charge of a large hospital in Romania, but she had to flee when the soviets wanted to purge the intelligentsia to strengthen their grip when many were looking west with hope for a new order.”

“Sonya must have felt quite fortunate.”

“Oh yes, and I can assure you she was quite good to Sonya and worked wonders with Michelle.”

“Did she visit often?”

“Yes, quite often. In fact she was such a frequent visitor I often wondered how Sonya could possibly afford the cost on her meager salary. I know I couldn’t.”

“Did you ask her?”

“I did. We had become great friends over the years. We had developed the trust and confidence in each others judgment to speak openly. Even about things we were taught as young girls to keep to ourselves.”

“Oh?” He queried, not quite following along.

“Yes, well, it’s not an American way of thinking, but in the old world girls are taught to quietly endure. So I know it wasn’t easy for her to admit to me Vlady did all of her work for free.”

“For free?” he sounded incredulous.”

“Yes, but it didn’t surprise me because that’s just the sort of person Vlady was. She was a generous woman with a heart of gold, not to mention very good at her profession.”

“Is that a fact,” Jack sounding not at all convinced. He didn’t share the same belief in the goodness of people that Marie apparently did. The way things worked in his world, one’s own self-interest was always the card kept hidden, tucked under a sleeve.

“Oh yes, I can assure you, Vlady was very generous and quite personable as well. As best as I can describe her, it was as if she were reborn anew each and every day just to share this moment with you.”

“Pardon ma’am, but if you don’t mind my saying, you sound as though you were a bit smitten by her spell as well.”

“Smitten by her spell?” she echoed his words. “Well I admit there was something uplifting about her. She seemed to rise above the everyday clamor. Effortlessly it seemed, always in complete control of everything around her. She had a compelling presence that much is sure.”

“It sounds as though Michelle was in very good hands.”

“Yes she was. When Vlady was present, she was the perfect child. She certainly had a lot of influence over her. Certainly more then Sonya or Milhaela had.”

“Who was Milhaela?” he cast a squint-eyed gaze.

“Mihaela Ceausescu.” Mary laughed, “Oh I know, it’s not the sort of name that just rolls off the tongue. I just called her Millie. She’s another ex-patriot and a close friend of Vlady’s. She and Vlady knew each other in Romania and worked together as a team very well.”

“That was Sonya’s saving grace actually, because she not only taught Michelle her daily lessons, but executed Vlady’s therapy program perfectly.”

“What exactly was Michelle’s problem?”

“Well,” Mrs. Donizetti followed after a deep sigh. “Sonya told me she suffered from an early childhood trauma, something about Michelle having a sense of abandonment.”

“It was a form of depression then?”

“I suppose. Sonya said that Michelle believed she had been abandoned when she was a small child, and because it happened in the night, she feared the dark. So as the moon began to rise, so would her state of unease. Of course her fears were only imaginary, but all quite real to her. By day’s end she’d become angry at the world, easily agitated and sometimes reduced to tears. Then she’d withdraw and become as sullen as the notes she’d sit down to play on the piano.”

“Of course she wasn’t always that way. It was only toward day’s end that she’d slip into the malaise. That’s when the poor girl seemed caught in the twilight struggling to remain in this world.”

“Sonya wasn’t able to cheer her up?” Jack attempted to lighten the mood. “You know, teach her to play Chop-Sticks instead of Isle of the Dead, or something?” Only the dear woman would have none of it.

“Of course, Mr. Murphy, what kind of mother would she be if she hadn’t? Like any caring mother she’d rock her on her lap to sooth her. Plus she had those special words Vlady had told her to use to calm her. Part of her therapy, you see.”

“Did it work?”

“When Vlady looked her in the eyes it did, most certainly. I think that’s why Vlady only visited in the night. To show her that not only dark thinks came out of the night.”

“She only visited at night?” He asked, sounding as astounded as he looked.

“Yes. I thought that was understood, Mr. Murphy?”

“No ma’am! In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of such a thing. They say just about everything happens in New York. Heck, I can get my shirts pressed at 3 in the morning, but doctor visits . . . Now that’s a first for me. Then again, a lot of what you’ve said has in one way or another broken new ground for me. I know I tend to be a bit cynical. Maybe it’s the nature of the job or maybe it’s just that I’ve seen a bit too much, but surely you must have found something odd about that as well.”

“No I didn’t, Mr. Murphy, none at all. Sonja needed help, Vlady provided it and I was happy she did.”

“How did she manage to pay for Mihaela’s services?”

“I honestly don’t know. Perhaps Vlady did since it was she who made the arrangements.”

“Well, there you go, Mrs. Donizetti!” Jack slapped his thigh.

“Excused me, Mr. Murphy?”

“You don’t see anything odd in that? She makes night visits for free and pays for Sonya’s child care too? That sounds like more than just a friendship to me.” He voiced his concern. All the while thinking the lists of possible suspected “intimates” was growing infinitely longer.

“Mrs. Donizetti, I don’t want you to take offense to what I am about to ask next, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t. Did Vlady stay the night?”

“Sir!” she recoiled as if suffering a blow, “To whom have I been talking to all this while? Have I not sufficiently explained to you the kind of woman Sonya was?”

“Yes, ma’am, you have, and I do apologize. It’s just that I need to know how you can be so sure of that?”

“Because, Lieutenant Murphy. That front door sounds a buzzer whether opened from the inside or from without. I know exactly the time she departed each and every night.”

“So it does. Well again I apologize, but my intent wasn’t to besmirch anyone’s reputation. I am simply trying to find Michelle and it’s my job to leave no rock unturned.”

“Well I can assure you, sir, there was nothing more to it. Vlady was simply a generous woman who did what she did out of the goodness of her heart, nothing more.”

“So that’s it then. Michelle was simply depressed?”

“Depression can be a serious thing, Mr. Murphy, and I can assure you her condition was most debilitating.”

“Did Vlady eventually help Michelle overcome her problem?”

“Yes, but that only came about after she moved away to live with Vlady.”

“Don’t tell me!” Jack sounded off rather incredulously as he leaned back in his seat. “Yet another generous offer from the woman with a heart of gold.”

“Yes, Mr. Murphy, it was. Even I knew Sonya couldn’t provide the kind of help Michelle needn’t. Not on her own at least.”

“When was the last time you’ve spoken with Vlady or Mihaela?”

“Sadly, I’ve not heard from either since Michelle disappeared. Neither had Sonya, or so she said when I ask.”

“She disappeared? She ran away from Vlady?”

“No, that happened shortly after her return home. About a month later as I recall. She had been making plans to restart her life. Only it didn’t turn out that way. One day Sonya came home and found her gone. It was so sad, really. She had blossomed into such a beautiful young woman. You should have seen her. She was such a joy to behold.”

“Was a missing persons report filed?”

“Yes, Vlady personally assured me. Of course Michelle was 18 by then, a young adult. Still the police did look for her, but apparently she had just disappeared.”

“Huh! Well, the last I’ve heard the laws of physics hadn’t been suspended yet.”

“Excuse me, detective?” she seemed a bit puzzled by the connection.

“In this country folks don’t just disappear, ma’am. Tell me, is Vlady still practicing?”

“Practicing?” again, she seemed a little confused.

“Yes, you said she was a Doctor of Psychiatry. Is she still in practice?”

“Oh dear, well, I think you must have misunderstood. Yes, she was a doctor of some renown, but that was in Romania. She wasn’t licensed to practice in this country.”

“You’re kidding, right?” he flinched, blindsided by her statement.

“I certainly am not, sir,” she sounded off rather indignant. “She confessed as much to me when I asked if she might have a look at Mrs. Caruthers in apartment 3 who was struggling with the loss of her husband.”

“Damn,” he muttered. Until now, he was trying to temper his judgments, determined to not rush blindly into anything. After all, he had been down that road before and it hadn’t worked out so well. So anything short of finding the assailant standing over his victim with smoking gun still in hand, the case would definitely have to come to him. And so it had! Like a train bearing down on a collision course he could no longer avoid.

“I think I should have a talk with this Vlady. Do you know where I can find her?”

“No. Although I do know it’s a rural address because during cherry season she always brought me a basket of cherries. She said they came from a small orchard behind her home.”

“Just one more question, Mrs. Donizetti. You’ve made a point of telling me Sonya loved Michelle dearly. That would seem to discount the need for Michelle to hide away from her. So I need ask. Did you ever see Michelle hug Vlady?”

Mrs. Donizetti sat back in her chair. He could tell her mind was racing, though she said nothing, until after a long pause she lowered her head and simply whisper, “I don’t know.” Then again she looked up as if to plea, “I don’t think it was part of her treatment plan.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Donizetti.” He replied, knowing what he had to do next. “I will be back in touch when I find Michelle.”

“Good luck, Mr. Murphy,” the dear woman said with a tissue in hand to dry her eyes. He smiled and reassured her he’d find Michelle.
 
 
Scene VI: The Pink Flamingo
 
 
It wasn’t until 8 that evening that Michael again appeared with guitar case in hand heading for work. Cecil again followed with a sober Arn sitting beside him in the cab. Careful to keep his distance, they made their way up Claymore Boulevard to the newly refurbished and resurrected Fox Theater, now a club called the Pink Flamingo. The old art deco theater had been reconfigured into a strip club and for some odd reason had developed quite a reputation among the avant-garde and nouveau riche.

The place was packed most nights even though as far as strip clubs go the Pink Flamingo was rather tame. The club had its own private security as well. The security crew tolerated little in the way of unsavory behavior, and if you stepped out of line, their response was usually quick, concise and bordered on the barbaric. Needless to say, with violent crime near non-existent the police were happy to leave them to their own devises.

It was also a private club with a “By Invitation Only” door policy. Something Cecil discovered when he tried to follow Michael into the club. The 15 minutes he spent wrangling with the 6-3, 250 + pound doorman couldn’t get him in. Even a crisp new 20 slipped into his pocket failed to turn the trick. However, when he upped it a 100, he got a very abrupt and dire warning to “mind your P’s and Q’s” before finally being allowed inside.

“All that for what?” he asked himself. “Admission to a floor show lounge with a small crowd, a meager handful of so-so Flamingo Girls and where a bottle of water costs 5.00 plus another 5.00 tip for the girl to retrieve it?”

The disproportionate size of the small crowd to the cars in the parking lot was the first tip-off that the small floor show lounge he had been escorted into was not where the action was. Certainly nothing he saw was attractive enough to draw the fanfare that came with the place. The floor show wasn’t that hot either. Nor the band which was an all girl topless band wearing g-strings, heels and couldn’t play a lick.

Not that anyone seemed to care. Although Cecil did find it reassuring that Michael wasn’t among them. Fact is, Michael was nowhere to be seen. He also noticed that other than the security detail, everyone who worked there were women, including the bartender who with a scowl and an attitude read him the riot act when he asked for a refill. “Look, buddy, you know the house rules. You want something, ask the hostess.”

“Damn, it’s only water. For all the bucks I laid out to get in this place you’d think a guy would be entitled to a bit of personal service.”

“Oh, there yah go. You guys are all the same. It gets a bit crowded, things stack up a bit and you come out crying like babies that ain’t been fed.”

It was a stinging indictment, meant to put him in his place. That is, if you were to discount the fact that the crowd wasn’t all that large at all. Or, while her mouth was busy spewing her venom at him, she was facing away. Her eyes fixated on something he’d not notice before now. A hallway illuminated by a faint pink light located at the rear of the lounge. Cecil chose to follow her eyes.

“Yeah, well, I guess I’m sorry. I didn’t mean too . . .”

“Look, exercise a little patience,” she interrupted. “You know, everyone is trying their best.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll ask the hostess.” Cecil returned to the lounge then worked his way toward the rear of the room. He was dead certain that’s were the action was, and couldn’t wait to see what the acclaim was all about. Actually he was somewhat excited by the myriad of possibilities. So much so that in his rush to get in, he failed to noticed the pair of security guards rising up to block his entry.

“I.D.,” the nastier of the two asked and Cecil responded by pulling out his wallet to show his drivers license.

“Ah, no, sorry fella, I meant your club I.D.”

“Club I.D? I’m supposed to have a club I.D to get some personal service around here?”

“Look, Mister . . . Mister,” he pause to give the driver’s license a second look. “Bend-over!” he mockingly stressed the first syllable. “I would suggest you turn round, have a seat and watch the floor show. Pronto!”

He got the message. For some reason access to whatever was down that hall was being monitored rather tightly. He hadn’t the slightest idea as to why, but one thing was certain. He wasn’t going to be listening to Michael play guitar anytime soon. Not until he could figure a way to gain access to that room.

Cecil decided to call it a night and went out to talk it over with Arn. He wasn’t feeling all that pleased with what had just transpired. He not only didn’t know anymore than before, but they had fleeced him out of a hundred and fifty bucks.

He started to cross the street when he saw a cleaning van pull up and back in the alley that separated the Pink Flamingo from an abandon building next door. His curiosity getting the better of him he walked over to have a look.

The first thing he noticed was that it wasn’t an alley. Rather it was a delivery entrance that abruptly terminated midway between the front and rear of the building. The drive sloped down. That meant the side service door entrance was a story above, with a flight of steps leading down. At the bottom of the stairs was a trash bin full to overflowing. Again, as the amount of refuse would seem to indicate, there was a lot more going inside than what he had seen thus far.

He watched as two cleaning ladies dressed in white smocks exited the van. They gathered up their things then walked up the long flight and rang the buzzer. An inspection hatch in the door slid open and after presenting their identification they were allowed to enter. Through that opened door he again saw the same faint pink light.

Thankfully, he found Arn awake and sober working on a crossword puzzle. Arn was also in the midst of rattling off a few choice words because Cecil had failed to pluck a few pink feathers to bring back to his thoroughly disappointed partner.

“Ah, sorry Arn, there wasn’t all that much to look at, with or without the feathers. I didn’t see Michael or much of anything else for that matter. Apparently anything worth seeing is going on behind closed doors. What I’m trying to figure out is what’s at play here; Girls, drugs, gambling . . . singing and dancing parakeets who do a great Gene Kelly?”

Arn laughed in a way he’d not heard before. Like a man with a debilitating disease, but not yet defeated, still fought to throw his hat into the ring. “I wouldn’t place my bets on dancing parakeets. You know, it could be nothing at all. Maybe it’s just a private club for certain folks to share a common interest and want to hobnob in private.

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. It could be anyone. Artists, businessmen, immigrants . . .”

“Immigrants?” Cecil interrupted. “The folks I saw didn’t look like immigrants to me.”

“Sure they are, buddy. We all are. Take me for examine. I was born in Ireland and belong to the Shamrock Club.”

“I thought they shut that place down for distilling without a license?”

“The social club on 43rd and Pike, yeah, but you can never take the whiskey out of an Irishmen. We still distill our private stock.”

“That stuff will kill you Arn, if it doesn’t get you locked up first.”

“That’s why I wouldn’t bank much on your chances of escaping alive should you accidentally stumble in while we were mixing up a batch.”

“So you think that’s all there is to it?”

“Well now, I’m not saying there is and I’m not saying there isn’t. What I am saying is that above the name of the club on the marquee it says ‘Dimitru Brother’s Social Club. You did read that, right?”

“Dimitru? Where have I heard that name before? What is it, Polish?”

“Beats me. All I can tell you is the Irish aren’t the only folks big on that clan stuff. It would be as simple as that, or, as you say, it could be something worse. Only what’s it to you? You’re following this kid Michael Chapman, not Bulgarian mobsters, right?”

“Yeah, sure, but I can’t follow him if I can’t figure out a way to get inside that room.”

“Incognito!” Arn replied while eyeing the tray of disguises.

“A disguise isn’t what I need. I need a membership card,” he replied matter-of-factly. “They ain’t letting anyone in without one.”

“Those cleaning ladies have one.”

“Yeah they do, but in case you haven’t notice . . .”

“I have, and I’ve seen worse,” Arn curled up his lip into a wily smirk.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I worked a case with vise cop a year back. He was digging into a pimping operation over on 43rd, and to get on the inside he did it up to the nines. Now if you know Cliff Morgan you wouldn’t bank much on his pulling it off. I mean, it ain’t like he’s got all that much to work with, if you get my drift. Only Francine proved me wrong. One day in her hands and he came out pretty enough to kiss.”

“Who’s Francine?”

“A beauty expert,” Arn beamed. “The best in the city, and when she’s not too busy she donates her time to vice. She owns a beauty shop now. Only for years she was the toast of Broadway. Fact, inside her shop she’s got the walls lined with the autographed photos of all the famous actresses she’s worked with over the years. A real artiste she is, and I can look you square in the eye and tell you flat out, Francine Frangella could turn a ham sandwich into a grenade.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope, and the way I see it girlfriend, with your build, your looks, you’d make a dandy. What are you, 5-8, 135-140 pounds?”

“Close,” Cecil was a bit tentative talking about an issue that had become his Achilles’ heel since joining the force. In a more perfect world he would’ve liked to defend himself by adding he was actually pushing 5-9. A big difference to him, but fearing further ridicule from a guy who was himself over 6’, he chose instead to change the subject. “Yeah, well, that still don’t get me inside. A club membership, remember?”

“You’re not listening fathead. Those cleaning ladies have one.”

“You’re suggesting I impersonate one of them?”

“It crossed my mind, yeah.”

“Okay wise guy, so I do it. I show up, hit one of them on the head and snatch her ID. Clever!”

“Nah, nah, it don’t go down like that. Look, you just work on freshening up that pretty smile. Let me work it out with the cleaning lady.”

“What? Now just how do you plan on doing that?”

“Let’s just say I’ve got my connections.”

“You go to church and pray a lot, right?”

“Yes, well, a little divine intervention never hurt. Although, sometimes a neighbor lady with a bad case of the hots for me don’t hurt none either. I never paid her much mind before because she’s kinda thick and her English ain’t so good.”

“Oh lord, don’t tell me.”

“Yip, Olga just happens to work for the exact same cleaning company.”

“You sure?” Cecil asked, thinking it might be the remnants of the whiskey talking.

“Oh yeah, seen the truck parked outside. So, are you game?”

“You’re serious!”

“Dead serious!” Arn looked him in the eye. “I know I can hold up my end. The question is, do you have what it takes to grasp that brass ring?”
 
 
Scene VII: A Community of Ex-Patriots
 
 
The next morning Jack was back in the office to research the history of the names Mrs. Donizetti had mentioned. No criminal records had been found. He then searched for the missing person’s report that would have been filed when Michelle turned up missing. Again, he found nothing. Why no report had been filed piqued his interest, especially since Dr. “Vlady” Vladimirescu had said she filed it personally.

A quick search though the INS records confirmed the fact that Vlady wasn’t licensed to practice psychiatry in this country. She was however educated as such in Romania. Her application for asylum listed Bucharest as her last known address before leaving under fear of persecution by the Soviets. She was subsequently granted asylum in West Germany before immigrating to New York. Her current address was listed as River Road, Waterston, New Jersey.

Having found the information he needed he hopped into his car and headed for Waterston to have a talk with Vlady. The town was just a short hop across the George Washington Bridge, plus another hours ride though the Essex county countryside where small farms and orchards dotted the landscape. He followed the rural route until he located the mail box. He turned off on a narrow gravel road that lead to a two story brick home that fronted several acres of cherries round back. The address on the lamp post at the foot of the driveway indicated he had found the right address.

It’s was a big place, maybe 5-6 bedrooms with lattice windows and a large white portico that sheltered Adirondack chairs in the fashion reminiscent of an old country home. The home and the garden looked very well kept, as did the orchard around back. The kind of place he’d always dreamed about retiring to once he’d had his fill of the street wars.

He got out and walked around to get a sense of the place. The air cool and crisp, filled with the scent of cherries nearing the time of harvest. On the portico he found a bushel full of rolled up daily newspapers scattered about. A clear sign that no one had been at the home for weeks. Nevertheless he knocked and waited patiently for the response that never came.

He turned and walked back toward his car feeling somewhat disappointed, especially after all that Marie Donizetti had told him. Although, that would mean he’d have to return tomorrow, which on the whole really didn’t sound all that bad. He’d only been there 15 minutes and was already enamored with the place. The ride out and the house, nothing was as he expected.

Then there was that orchard and those old boyhood memories of the ocean of white blossoms and the snow-like pedals that covered the ground. A beauty that was disappointingly short-lived. Looking up he saw a scattering of raven and crow swooping down with abandon upon the red harvest. Ravenous birds to be sure, near blinded by their lust.

Much like himself as a boy he supposed. Swooping down on a bagful of the blood red fruit until the bellyache that had him wishing he hadn’t. Or, perhaps, as had happened in the Kline case. A matter in which he felt so sure of himself he had swooped down upon the boy dispassionately, near blinded by his lust to assign blame in the case. Only it turned out he had been wrong, leaving himself and his reputation no less battered than that poor kid, Gerald.

It was on that thought he spotted a man standing alongside a small ramshackle place about 100 yards away. He also noted that the man was watching his every move. “Well, why not?” he asked himself. “Inquisitive neighbors usually knew more about your business than they do there own.”

It turned out the man who was supposedly fixing a lawn mower and surreptitiously watching him was Yuri Saban, a tall, burly fellow with a thick Slavic accent. Yuri was the local Mr. Fixit who was usually first on everyone’s list to call whenever something need be done. The included “Doc Vlady,” as Yuri affectionately called her. It did however take some doing to get the rather standoffish fellow to admit to it, or anything else for that matter. Especially considering how reticent he was about speaking to anyone asking questions about the good doctor with the surname of Murphy.

“Good day, sir. I’m Jack Murphy.”

“Yuri Saban,” he replied, giving Jack the once over through a squint-eyed gaze. “Perhaps you can help me, sir. I need to know when Dr. Vladimirescu might be home.”

“Huh!” he grunted, “I don’t know,” he followed grudgingly, as if afraid he had already said too much.

“Look Mr. Saban, I’m here to notify Dr. Vladimirescu that an old and dear friend of hers has passed on and to deliver my condolence, that’s all.”

“Oh? Well, maybe you come back next week, okay?”

“Vlady and I are old and dear friend, you know. We do some important business together.” he lied, hopeful of winning his confidence.

“Oh? Sorry, Mister . . .”

“Murphy, but please, call me Jack.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Sorry I did not know,” his response punctuated with an apologetic smile. “Doc Vlady and Mihaela Ceausescu are in Germany. Business, you know.”

“Mihaela Ceausescu?” he asked himself. If his memory served him, she was the woman who looked after Michelle and Vlady’s close personal friend. “When will she be back?”

“Maybe you ask Egore Banica. No, no. You ask Arina Stanasila, okay.” He pointed the way to a house further down the road. “Maybe she knows.”

“Ah, well, actually I feel fortune to not find her at home. I don’t like having to pass on such sad news. Unfortunately it’ll be just as hard on Sonya, I’m afraid,” again he lied, hoping that one didn’t come back to bite him.

“Sonya,” he beamed, “you know Sonya . . . Sonya Pavel?”

“Yes, and Michelle, great friends both,” Jack smiled broadly, realizing the ploy had worked. “You know Michelle, right?”

Yuri leaned in and lit up with a thousand watt smile, his brows rocketing skyward like a pair of craggy mountain peaks.

“Yes! Mea surioară băiat!” he nudged Jack on the shoulder and made like a guppy. “Michelle everyone knows!”

“Surioară-băiat?” Jack enquired.

“Yes, how do you say? Girl, ahm . . . boy?”

“Girl? Boy?” Jack tried to stitch one and one together. The link seemed so incongruous that to escape him entirely. That is, unless due to his poor command of the language he needed help finding the right English word to describe her in terms of her gender. “Ah, that would be a young woman.” He smiled in response, “Or more precisely a very pretty young woman.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Sorry, my English,” Yuri replied, then just as suddenly clammed up. “Now I am busy, okay? I must ask you to leave,” he scowled, turned around and walked away. As did Jack still trying to figure out what had been said to cause him to stop talking.

He drove to the house that Yuri had pointed to. Along the way he slowed to a crawl to check the names on the mail boxes as he drove past, noticing they were all Slavic names. Dragos, Puscasu, Vladu, all Romanian’s,” he thought, “A little community of ex-patriots sharing like customs and a shared heritage that no doubt went back countless generations.”

Arina Stansila was also a part of that community. A woman in her 60’s with a scraggly hair or two sprouting out like weeds on a rather tried-and-tested, war-torn face. Nevertheless, while she might have looked battle worn, she was still up to testing Jack’s mettle, or so he soon found out.

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Saban had suggested you might know when Vlady would be returning from Germany.”

Her answer was quick and concise, and if Jack’s foot hadn’t been wedged inside the door, it would have hit him in the face. “Mrs. Stansila, please, I need to ask Vlady where I might get in touch with a mutual friend,” he again lied.

Arina peered out from behind the door. “I’m just the housekeeper. Go away . . . please!”

“Yes, of course, but I must know when to return. Mr. Saban doesn’t know and neither does Sonya.”

“Sonya?” she eyed him suspiciously, but she did manage to open the door a bit wider.

“Yes Sonya Pavel. Do you know her?”

“Yes.” She replied, still eyeing him warily.

“Well, you see Michelle is missing and she thinks Michelle might have gone with Vlady.”

“No, the doctor travels with Mihaela Ceausescu.”

“Do you know where I might find her?” he followed, careful to not set off her rather short fuse.

“No!” she again replied, sounding somewhat bitter or frightened, though Jack couldn’t tell which.

“Can you tell me who might know? Yuri said she was very popular, everyone knew her.” He smiled as if knowing more than he did.

Arina managed a slight smile as if reflecting back upon some fond remembrance of the girl. “Yes, a very good child, Michelle,” then the corner of her lips turned down into a scowl. “Bah, Saban’s a fool. He talks too much. He thinks he can because he had privileges. He thinks I don’t know. Calm her! Phooey! I spit on him!”

“Yes, it is sad. I can’t trust Saban either. That’s why I need to speak with you. What I don’t understand is why she favors him so? He is a rather coarse man.” He followed with a hunch.

“Yes. He ate my Parjoale, did Vlady’s bidding then laughed and treated me like a fool.”

“I know, I don’t understand it either. I think Vlady always favored him.” He reached for the only logical follow-up to her statement.

“Yes, always. At the Institute I was head nurse, not Yuri. Yet Vlady gave him privileges there too. Phooey!” she made like she was spitting on the floor.

“Well, I need to find Michelle. Can you help me?” Suddenly her face tightened up and grew fiery red. “No!” she scowled again attempting to shut the door.

“Mrs. Stansila, please! Sonya has asked this of me.”

“No, go away. I’m just the housekeeper,” she manages to get out before succeeding in slamming the door in his face.

Egore Banica was no different. He was a gardener by trade, or at least he was now. Who knows what he might have been in his past life. Like the others he had spoken to, the guy might just as well have been a brain surgeon back in his homeland. Although somehow he doubted it. Not with the thickness of this guy’s brow ridge.

In fact, the term Neanderthal came to mind. That is, until the man opened his mouth and began to speak. It seems the man with a face like Frankenstein was as articulate as a Harvard scholar. He had perfect command of the English language. “How do you do, Mr. Murphy, it’s a pleasure.” Well now, that put a hitch in his caveman theory.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Banica. You speak English very well.”

Egore chuckled, “Yes, I studied to be an interpreter for 12 years, but the soviets had no use for a Romanian who understood the language better then they did. It didn’t fit into their plan, you see. They wanted an ignorant slave class and the intelligentsia didn’t fit in that picture. So I became an administrator.”

“You worked for Vlady?”

“Yes, proudly so, for many years,” he explained. “She was the very best you know. Where other facilities were turning out the worse of the worse, Vlady turned out productive workers who had much to contribute, year after year.”

“Yes, well, Yuri had suggested you might know when Vlady would be returning from Germany.”

“No. Why do you ask?” he enquired in a voice that suddenly took on a harder edge.

“Sonya has asked me to find Michelle. I’m a close personal friend,” again he lied, hoping for his lucky break. “I’ve heard you knew her quiet well.”

“Yes, though no better than others around here. Michelle was troubled and Vlady needed all the help she could get. I will admit to doing my part. I’ve always had a predilection for that sort of thing, you know,” he beamed a buffoonish grin, and then somewhat more soberly summed up his reply. “However, in answer to your question, no, I’ve not seen Michelle for quite some time.”

“Huh, well I wonder why Arina Stansila seems to think you might be ‘privileged’ with that information as well?”

“Arina said that?” his voice trembled.

“Yes, she was quite clear on that point as I recall,” he followed, hoping the jab might prod the canary into singing with a bit more specificity. Only his luck ran out.

“That bitch! Then abruptly he turned cold and angry, wanting nothing more to do with the conversation. “I have work to do! I must ask you to leave, immediately!” Then just like the others he had spoken to, he entered the house and let the door slam with a bang.

“Had I pushed too far?” he wondered. “Had Egore seen through the pretense? Then too, what was the secret that hung over the heads of these people they fought so fiercely to protect?”

He had heard of this sort of thing before. Ex-patriots sharing like customs and a shared heritage, grouping together to preserve, and if need be, fight for what was theirs. Such groups or clans were numerous in large cities, the immigrant neighborhoods in the greater New York area being a prime example. Although he had never seen one with a hierarchy that disseminated “privileges” like this one did. That is, except in the underworld where chieftains ruled with an iron fist, expecting blind obedience. Punishing those who didn’t and rewarding those who did.

Which to our keen-eyed detective begged the question, “If there was something more uniting this community other than a usual Sunday bazaar and annual Goulash eating contest what was it?” Though more importantly, “who disseminated those rights and privileges, and what role did Doc Vlady and Michelle play in all this?”

All questions he knew he’d have to find an answer to before he’d be able to pierce though the veil of secrecy to find Michelle. He would come back tomorrow. There was a lot here he needed to understand about these people. Not to mention Vlady, the woman who fraudulently passed herself off as a doctor, and wield her personage around like some medieval shield and spear.

Then there was this place. There was something about it that called out to him. He could feel it in the air ripe with temptation for that lush red fruit, and he could hear it in the regretful caw of those raven and crow.
 
 
Scene VIII: What are the chances of that?
 
 
It was midday when Cecil first spotted the girl through the window. He had been watching her for the better than an hour, using field glasses through the viewing port in the back of the van. He only got a periodic glimpse of her, coming and going in and out of view. It wasn’t the best angle considering he was parked a story below. Plus the white lace curtains stood between. A thin veil to be sure, but coupled with the odd angle, the best he could make out was her platinum hair, bare shoulders and he guessed a 36b cup bra. No, make that a little “c,” he mulled over the thought wanting to get that particular point just right.

A small point, but unable to see much else he followed those dancing, high-rise beauties around like a hawk zeroing in on his pray. “Huh,” he told himself, “I could think of worse assignments.”

It was at that moment he heard Arn returning from his mission. He had been gone the last 3 hours securing the cooperation of his lady friend. The lady living next door who worked for the Tepes Cleaning Company.

“Got it covered, buddy! Arn confirmed as he stepped in. “It wasn’t pretty though,” he followed with a huff, still a bit out of breath.

“It wasn’t?” Cecil looked on amused.

“Nope! On a scale of 1 to 10 I’d put it just under putting a pistol to your head and pulling the trigger.”

“Oh yeah? She sounds tough. What’d it cost you?”

“Don’t ask. Let’s just say the next time you need some plumbing done, don’t call a Romanian to clean out your pipes. Or at least not one with the lungs of a sump pump.”

“. . . and if that isn’t onerous enough for you,” he followed while pulling back his collar to expose a bright red oval abrasion on his neck, “Yep, fangs!”

“Wow! That’s some hickey,” Cecil marveled, peering in close. “So you’re saying this vampire is going to surrender her ID and let me go in her place?”

“Yep! I guess some women just find my Irish blood too irresistible to resist.”

“Maybe you ought to mention that to your wife.”

“Nah, I ain’t got that much blood to give.” Arn hooked his finger under his lip and pulled his mouth along as if he were a fish on a hook.

“So where is it, the I.D.?”

“I already handed it over to Francine for you.”

“You didn’t?”

“I did. She’s got to slap your picture over top. I told her to add a little extra dip to your do while she’s at it.” He smirked then blew Cecil a kiss. “Keep in mind though, we’ve only got 3 days, start to finish. If we don’t return her ID by then, we’ll both be praying for a ‘do-over’ button. Oh, and by the way, Francine will be by in a few minutes to pick you up.”

“She’s coming here to pick me up?”

“Yep, she volunteered. She said she wanted to cut off all avenues of escape. She sounded pretty hungry too.”

“Don’t tell me, another vampire?”

“Nope! More like a shark who ain’t had fresh meat in a week.”

“Aaah, sorry to disappoint, Arn, but . . .”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Arn cut in. “Don’t ‘but’ me. I’m not giving up my blood to that Transylvanian vampire just because you suddenly turn up with a hitch in your giddy-up.”

“Can’t, Arn, I’m staking out a babe in Michael’s apartment.”

“Yeah, who is it?”

“Who is it? How am I supposed to know?”

“Move over, let me have a look.” Arn snatched the glasses out of Cecil’s hand.

“Holy smoke! Well you’ve got to hand it to the guy. That’s one fine looking young lady. You think that’s the girl Jack’s looking for, the girl who was driving Michael’s car?”

“Could be, but her hair doesn’t match the description.”

“Where did she come from?”

“I don’t know. I checked the tenant list, but she doesn’t fit the description of anyone on the list.”

“No single young females?” Arn asked.

“No, all the tenants are elderly except Michael. They all have these strange foreign names too. The only woman is a Sveta Vladich. Only that girl in Michael’s apartment doesn’t look 68 years old to me. I guess she must have slipped in last night.”

“Hey, not on my watch, sonny boy”

“I was only gone 3 hours, Arn.”

“Well, there you have it. What are the chances of that?”

Murphy's Law Book II: Red Harvest Part I: Scenes IX-XIV By Josie Jack Murphy once again delves into the murky underworld to find a missing girl. Armed with only his dry-wit and cynicism, he journeys to a quiet little farm town called Waterston. It’s a beautiful place, renown for its cherries and the orchards that dotted the landscape against the rolling green hills beyond. But it’s also a world where the hunter becomes the hunted and where the forces of good collide with the evil cloaked in the myth and mysticism of an ancient belief. It’s also a place where some find "the Red Harvest sinfully wild to enjoy, while others find nothing more than disappointment and regret . . ."

 
 
Scene IX: Professor Rutherford
 
 
Jack walked up the steps of Lindquist Hall. He was on his way to an appointment with Dr. Carl Rutherford, a specialist in Eastern European Studies at NYU. Alongside him, a hurried crowd of young men and women dressed up in the new-age uniform of the day. Sandaled vagabonds dressed none too flatteringly with hair that required a second look to single out the girls from the boys. All filled with the hope and the promise that would one day be replaced by disappointment when faced with the reality of how the real world worked. “They’ll learn,” he smirked like a cynical man who’d long since lost the optimistic spirit of youth.

Then he spotted a vision bouncing down the steps, her golden blonde ponytail arched high, like a prancing young filly on promenade. He looked favorably upon the fullness of her pink and white gingham dress. The eagerness painted on her parted, red stained lips. Her fresh, rose-pink complexion and that whiff of teen spirit that could bring even the most cynical to his knees. Yes, he looked upon her fondly. Wanting nothing more than to overcome his doubts if only for a moment just so he could embrace that optimistic spirit of youth again. Hopefully, before “she” escaped him entirely.

Jack walked down the cavernous halls of the south wing of the building, his echoed footsteps announcing his arrival before he had even located room 301. He found Dr. Rutherford perusing some documents and lighting up his pipe as he stepped into his office. A short, full bearded man in his mid 60’s, he was a well respected scholar who knew everything there was to know in his chosen area of expertise, perhaps better than anyone in the country.

Jack handed him the picture of Dr. Sanda Vladimirescu then went over all he knew about her and that clandestine group of ex-patriot Romanians living just outside Waterston.

“So you’ve an interest in finding out if they share a common background, is that it?” he asked with a rather raspy voice, again repacking his pipe.

“Yes, and I’d like someone to explain to me what it is that brings this particular group together.”

“Well, for the most part, many of those who’ve fled the Soviet Bloc have managed to do so through East Germany. Most, though not all, with help from outside groups who have the muscle and the money to arrange it. Many humanitarian, religious and political groups play a large role in this. Identifying and locating the records of those individuals is a relatively simple matter in which I will be able to assist you.” He replied then discretely coughed into the palm of his hand. It was the sign of a man who’d been savoring the taste of fine tobacco for a dangerously long period of time.

“However,” he continued after clearing his throat, “organized crime plays a role in this process as well. Not for altruistic reasons unfortunately, but to seed criminal ventures throughout the world, the United States ranking high on that list. There are no records or documentation on these individuals, so if that is what you hope to find I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Now in answer to your question, Detective. Romania, like many East European bloc countries are basically ethnic states with Soviet influence currently superimposed on top. Primarily due to geographic location, the area has come under the influence of many peoples and forms of governance throughout the centuries, but throughout it has been regional ethnicity and cultural ties that remains the binding force.”

“Of course governance from the outside most often meant rule with an iron fist. Thus many of these groups were driven underground to avoid brutal repression, and sometimes worse. That would be the state of things today, a period of totalitarian rule where hundreds of thousands are being persecuted. Some imprisoned, some murdered, some committed to asylums, their children forced into institutional orphanages where they are warehoused by the state and abuse is common place.

“As a result, these secret societies are now stronger than ever. With help from the outside, many have managed to flee, yet remain united by their shared ethnicity, customs and culture that date back centuries. No doubt that’s the same common ground that unites your group as well.”

“Yes, but Arina Stansila spoke of ‘privileges’ which to me implies a hierarchy and their secretiveness tells me they have something more important to protect than simply cultural identity.”

“Well, as I said, not all these groups work for the good. The conditions are such that it also provides a perfect breeding ground for the unsavory to flourish as well.”

“You’re suggesting syndicated crime?”

“Yes, more or less, though I’m afraid I can only provide limited help in that regard. Still, a bit of research might shed a few clues,” he labored to explain, his raspy voice tailing off as he again studied the picture of Dr. Vladimirescu.

“Take this photo for instance,” he followed. “Those are Striped Maples in the background. They’re indigenous to this region, so that tells me it was taken here. Likewise, the girl is fashionably dressed. That tells me she has integrated nicely into her new life in the U.S. as well. Yet Dr. Vladimirescu looks as if she’s still a civil servant employed by the State, a high ranking civil servant at that.”

“Is that a fact,” Jack broke in then came around to look for himself.

“Oh yes. You see, in Romania dress styles tend to be rather regimented. Especially for those who work for the State. The cut of the lapel, the length and style of the skirt, even the color is often prescribed. You might think of it as a sort of populous uniform if you will.”

“Ah-ha,” Jack mutters, perusing the details pointed out, “but how can you tell she’s a woman of high rank?”

“Quite simply. You’ll note the high buttoned collar and the decorative tie. That style only comes with status.”

“There’s something else of interest I’ve found in this photo. You’ll note the ring on her right index finger. That would be looked upon quite suspiciously in current day Romania, so I assume it is something she started wearing since immigrating to the west. I find it odd she’d feel the need to dress as if she were still working for the politburo down to the style of her boots, yet wear such a ring. Not a wedding ring, but a large and conspicuous ring on the wrong hand and on the wrong finger. I find that rather incongruent. Very much out of character it would seem to me.”

“You’ve a sharp eye doc,” Jack replied, leaning closer in to make out what he could. “It looks almost like a fraternity ring with a red stone.”

“Whatever it is I suspect it’ll require closer examination. May I keep this? I’d like to have a copy enlarged.”

“No problem, doc.”

“There are other things we need consider as well. For instance, let’s consider her name for a moment. Vladimirescu is a family name with Transylvanian origins. Specifically Vlachian, and when coupled with Sanda, it makes for a very unique name. You see, the derivation of the name Sanda is ‘Defender of the people.’ It is rarely given, usually reserved for those who once occupied a status of great strength and power.”

“Great strength and power,” Jack straightened back up. “I’ve heard those words used to describe her before. Mrs. Donizetti, I believe.”

“Indeed! Well, given her last name I’d venture to say this woman belonged to a very old and established Vlachian Transylvanian community. The same with the name Mihaela Ceausescu, though in her case, her name has Moldavian origins, long standing allies with the Vlach. Likewise, Mihaela is not a common household name. It means ‘like a god.’”

“Yeah, so. She was a nursemaid for the kid, not some deity standing atop Mount Olympus.”

“Yes, that much I am certain, at least that’s how we see them in the here and now. Although you must remember, the family lineage goes back centuries and the same ethic, cultural and social allegiances that bound them then, may well be the allegiances that bind them today.”

“So you think you’ve something to work with here, professor?”

“Yes, I think so. It should prove interesting, though I can’t promise I’ll find what you need. Still, with a little luck I might be able to solve some of the mystery.”

“How long, Dr. Rutherford?”

“Hum, well, give me a week or two to see what comes up.”

“Ah, sorry doc, no can do. I’m in the law business where time might mean lives.”

“When do you need it?”

“Yesterday!”

“Mr. Murphy, I don’t think you need a political Scientist from NYU. What you need is divine intervention.”

“Sorry doc, don’t have the time for that either. Besides I’ve tried and I keep getting a busy signal.”

“Yeah, okay, call me Friday afternoon and I’ll give you what I’ve found.” Jack slipped on his fedora, shook his hand and told him he would be in touch.

“Say doc, you know you ought to be thinking about lightening up on that pipe. Else wise you might be looking for a bit of that divine intervention yourself.” Carl Rutherford lowered his head and averted his gaze like a guilty man on this way to the gallows. “Already tried, but unfortunately I keep getting a busy signal.”

“Touché!” Jack nodded with a tip of his hat. It was meant in the way of a compliant, of course. After all, he was grateful for the man’s help, though privately he wondered whether anything useful will come of the visit. He rather doubted it.

He started to leave wondering whether he would have had better luck with Madam Caruso and her crystal ball when the professor’s raspy voice again pierced his thoughts.

“You know, all this sort of reminds me of a very old and obscure Vlachian text I once read. More folklore than a historical narrative actually, but it did mention an old creed that somehow comes to mind.”

“Huh!” Jack grunted. “Yeah, so, what’s that got to do with Dr. Vladimirescu?”

“I’m not sure exactly. It’s probably nothing.” He replied, though it was evident his words were wholly disassociated with his thoughts. “Well then I’ll be in touch.”
 
 
Scene X: Pretty from Head to Toe
 
 
Francine Frangella escorted the already visibly shaken Cecil into her “Pretty from Head to Toe” salon. By now the place had taken on almost mythical proportions in his mind’s eye, and it didn’t disappoint. The room styled in a French boudoir motif had lush burgundy-red velour furnishings, brass fittings and mirrored throughout. The air was rich with the sweet smells of perfume and along the walls hung framed autographed portraits of the most notable actresses of the era.

One photo in particular caught his eye. Engraved on the wall above the front desk it read, “Transformation that will obscure the lines beyond your imagination.” Below it, an autographed picture of Jane Mansfield posed in a provocative scarlet-pink swimsuit.

All the pomp and pageantry seemed a bit rich for our disheveled rookie. The tell-tale signs could be heard in the knock of his knees, read on his shell-shocked face. Although you couldn’t say the same for the elegant creature sporting a rather mischievous smile who greeted them at the front desk.

Tall and sumptuous, she wore a red sequin off the shoulder pencil dress that hugged her hips like honey on a spoon. While on top of her head she wore a beehive bouffant which she seemed prone to want to balance upright as if fearing it might fall off should she happen to look down. “Francine, darling, come, come, let me have a look at this lovely thing you’re escorting.” She broadcast loud and clear. He looked around and saw every eye in the place riveted on him.

“Marge, this is Cecil. Cecil, this is Marge,” she naughtily smirked.

“Cecil is my effeminate friend in much need of a makeover. So I thought to myself who better to do it than Ms. June. Is she ready to spin her magic?” she asked, again with that mischievous smile.

“Yes, of course. If you’ll escort this lovely thing I’ll get you situated and Madam Magnifique can begin to work her miracles.”

“Caroline!” Ms. June’s unassailable voice entered the mix. “Quickly,” she snapped her fingers, “I want two holes punched in both ears, and Marilyn, he’s yours first. I want a complete defoliant job, and . . .” she leaned in to whisper in her ear, “be sure to use the industrial strength grade paste.” Marilyn giggled as she escorted him through a door to the right.

An hour later his sat in a styling chair in the main lounge. His skin a fiery red, his eyes were closed, his body taut seemingly detached from himself while a cadre of specialty artisans working on every aspect of him. The manicurist, pedicurist and cosmetologist giggled and fastidiously pampered and toyed with his nails and his face with practiced hands. While Ms. June busily prepared the landing strip for the gorgeous “golden blonde do” she planned to cement to the top of his newly shorn, spit-shinned head.

“Not to worry, you sweet thing, I’m using only the finest grade glue.” She smirked as an assistant was busy centering the appliances to his chest with the same fine grade glue. “It’s brand new. A compound developed by the space agency. You know, Sputnik and all that. Guaranteed to withstand the winds of Jupiter, or so I’m told.”

Francine sat in a chair close by watching the product of her innovative thinking take form. His lips burned a cherry red. His brows spread like wind-swept wings over hazel-green eyes that pierced through the shadowy hollows of black kohl and violet. Add to that picture nails of a viper and the most gloriously wavy blond hair and you have a picture of a cleaning woman on hyper-drive. Especially when you consider it was all wrapped up in a pretty little package that flaunted a pair of 42d cups that weren’t going anywhere.

“I assume you’ll be taking, Cecil, err, Cecilia next door when we are through,” Ms. June asked Francine, looking up for her work.

“Yes, we’ve an appointment at 5 o’clock. I’ve my eye on a particular set of pumps and a Pink Flamingo number that’ll land her on a casting couch in a heartbeat.”

“Face down, I’m sure,” replied Ms. June and giggles spring up from all within ear shot.

“A cleaning lady, right?” Caroline enquired as she attached the long strand earrings in place.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure she’ll be going some cleaning alright.” She puckered up and made a giant sucking sound. “We’ll just slap a smock and cap over top to her get her in. Once inside, all the rest is for her to enjoy.”

By 7 P.M. Francine was walking back to her car, while following behind Cecilia struggled to keep pace in those impossible 4” heels. “Yes darling, that is definitely you. Now don’t you go worrying you pretty little head about the expense. I understand Captain Turner is covering the whole cost personally. He said something about owing you a favor and you can consider it a debt repaid.” She beamed a bright smile. “So you just run along, have a good time and I’ll see you in about 6 months. Hopefully that glue will have given up the ghost by then. Although don’t hold me to that,” she chuckled.

Poor Cecil, err, Cecilia, her cheeks where already mussed with watery streaks of black kohl and violet.
 
 
Scene XI: The Girl in the Window
 
 
Jack drove past the surveillance van parked across the street from Michael’s apartment. Not wanted to give the location away, he parked a block further down then slipped on a pair of sunglasses and an overcoat before making his way back. He opened the unlocked side door and found Arn Fife with field glasses in hand and his nose pressed up to the viewing portal.

“Ssssh, quiet Cecil,” Arn whispered with his magnified-eyes glued to the window. “I think I’m on to something big, kid.”

Jack had met Arn before. He was the guy who always drunk himself into a stupor at the Policemen’s Ball, year after year. He had never worked with him, but more than once he had offered to drive him home. There he’d give the front door to his house a decent pounding for 30 minutes, sometimes longer, before his wife would eventually relent and open the door.

It was always the same scene. He’d somehow manage to drag Arn inside, the whole while kicking and screamed, “No, no, please. Lock me up for the night. Shoot me, anything I don’t care. Just don’t leave me alone with her.” He did none of the above of course, but he did manage to disarm that tough-as-nails, Jack booted, German Howitzer with a 12 inch skillet clutched in her hand before leaving. Not that it did much good. Two steps out the door and the clank of yet another skillet rang out across the yard. Poor slob, and folks wondered why he drank.

“It’s Jack, Arn, not Cecil.” Startled, Arn jumped out of his seat and landed on the floor. “Damn, Lieutenant, you scared the piss out of me.”

“Huh, well perhaps next time I’ll knock first and ask if anyone is home.”

“Ah, sorry, sir, I was just observing the activities in the Chapman residence and I guess I was a bit engrossed in my work.”

“Arn please, the name is, Jack.”

“Got’cha, Jack. I guess first names are only fittin’ since you seen me take a lickin’ or two.”

“Sweet wife you got there, Arn. I got to admire her tenacity. She’s got more bite than a Pit-Bull.”

“Well, it ain’t like I don’t have a ‘Beware of’ sign posted on the chain link fence.” Arn laughed.

“So what’s got you so engrossed my friend? You catch him necking with his boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend? Lieutenant . . ., I mean, Jack, you’ve got this kid all wrong.”

“Surprise, I can usually spot them a country mile away.”

“Well, have a look for yourself. His got his sweetie up there prancing around in her underlies like she’s practicing for one of them strip tease shows. Fact, just before you came in the bra was coming off next.”

“You don’t say? Mind if I have a look.”

“Aaaah, no, course not,” Arn stammered, realizing he was being asked to give up his seat in the first row. Reluctantly he handed him the glasses with a grimace as Jack took up the vacated seat then peered out zeroing in on the vision dancing behind that thin veil of curtains.

“Who is she?” Jack asked, wondering if this was the girl Mr. Turley had seen driving Michael’s car.

“Don’t know. We thought you might.”

“I can’t really tell. She’s standing too far back from the window and with the curtain between I’m not getting much definition. Personally I can’t see what you’re so excited about, Arn. You can’t really see a darn thing.”

“You just got to learn to fill in the missing gaps, Jack. From the way you be rememberin’ it.”

Jack looked up, shaking his head, “Old memories, Arn?”

“Old, but believe me, those kinds of memories you take to your grave.”

“Well, you probably won’t get much, but I’d like you to try and get some pictures to show, Mr. Turley. Meanwhile, now that we’ve got her, I think we should pay them a visit.”

“You’re going up there?”

“I’ll wait until Cecil gets back, but yeah, I am.” Jack replied as he returned to watching the scene play out.

“You know, you could send me.” Arn followed.

“I would but I’m afraid you might not come back.”

“Are you beginning to fill in some of them missing gaps yet, Jack?” Arn asked while whipping the corners of his mouth with a hanky.

“Huh, musicians, go figure. I guess I had the kid figured all wrong,” Jack replied, sounding a little disappointed for having misjudged the kid.

“Are you done, Jack?” Arn could scarcely draw in his hanging tongue.

“Yeah, go for it,” Jack replied, handing him the glasses.

Arn snatched the glasses and jumped in. “Ah, now that’s the way I like them, cute and perky. You know what they say, more than a handful,” Arn glanced back and grinned like a cat licking milk from its whiskers.

“Yeah, whatever,” Jack followed only half listening and too mad at himself to even care.

How could he have been so mistaken about Michael? Just because his hands were smooth, his nails well kept and he had effeminate mannerisms didn’t make him gay. Nor had he asked Michael specifically if he played guitar. He had just made the assumption based on his having pointed to the guitar case. It might not have even been his. Perhaps he had just pointed to it because it was there, as a handy point of reference. For all he knew, he might have played the Triangle or a Tambourine.

It was a serious misjudgment, coming after he had promised himself he’d not fall into that trap again. Passing judgment on others based on one’s own biases, prejudices and beliefs was dangerous and wrong. There’s no place in police work for someone like that. Especially someone with the temerity of “Spike,” that rash, reckless, audacious voice inside to which he still remained a victim. No less so than were the crows, blinded as they were by their ravenous lust.

“So, where’s Cecil?”

“Ah, he’s making preparations to follow the kid into the club tonight. He says he needs to see what’s going on inside.” Arn followed, still absorbed with whatever was going on behind that curtained window.

“What sort of preparation? Is he buying a new suit, or something?”

“Ah, yeah, it’s something like that. He said he’s got to conform to the dress code.”

“Well la-de-da. First assignment and Mr. Fancy-pants is already putting on the Ritz. Good for him, shows character.”

“Yeah, well, I reckon them new pants are going to be pretty fancy, and plenty la-de-da, that’s for sure.” Arn replied. His eye still glued to the scene playing out in Michael’s apartment and still only half listening.

“So when do you expect him back?”

“Soon, Jack,” was all he managed to get out between the ooo’s and aaah’s.

“I’m going out to get me a burger. You want anything?”

“No, I’m fine,” again seemingly too preoccupied to response.

“Don’t forget, if she leaves while I’m gone I want all the photos you can shoot, got it?”

The trip to the Fast Freddie Burger took a bit longer than he expected. So he brought one back for Arn in case he’d changed his mind. He was making his way back to the van when he saw the unidentified girl who had been in Michael’s apartment walking out the front entrance of the tenement. She was wearing a hooded fluorescent pink windbreaker, a white knee length pleated skirt and low-top tennis’ without socks.

“She certainly fits the bill alright,” he thought as he watched her standing at the curb waiting for the opportunity to dash across the street between the passing cars.

Jack backed into an alcove nearby and watched as three of the local unemployables sitting on the tenement steps next door jump up and rushed to her aid. Actually street thugs with gangland tattooed all over them would have been more like it. Although he would’ve been hard pressed to prove that in a court of law the way they jumped out into the street, stopped the oncoming traffic and escorted her to the other side. And what was their reward for behaving so gentlemanly? A smile and a wave as they backed away genuflecting as if praying to Mecca.

“Huh!” he grumbled. “Talk about parting the Red Sea,” he thought as he watched her walk into the cleaners nearby.

“What is it about this girl and Michael and the tenement he lived in that commanded such reverence and respect from these people?” He would’ve though the girl, like Michael would have been run out of the neighborhood long ago fearing for their lives. “Yet here they roamed unmolested, free of worry, as if the building was some holy Greek temple.”

Well, he wasn’t so sure about that ‘holy temple’ business. Narcotics, prostitution, gangland affiliation sounded more like it. Whatever it was, even a blind man could tell Michael was part of something with a long and powerful reach. Something that could reach down into this neighborhood and hold sway even over groups with roots so vast even the police couldn’t weed them out. One thing was certain. The girl was pretty, but even he couldn’t garner that kind of respect without a hammer that could squash them like bugs.

On a hunch he decided to follow her in. Why not? They had never met. Besides, with the overcoat and dark sunglasses no one was going to recognize him regardless. When he got there he stood in the line awaiting service from the clerk, two customers behind the unidentified girl.

He watched as the clerk took possession of her pickup receipt then brought back her freshly laundered clothes. He placed her receipt in a wire basket next to the register, rang up the sale then thanked her in his broken English before she turned to leave. Unfortunately she was looking away as she passed, but on the upper right shoulder of her pink windbreaker he saw a stenciled picture of a pink flamingo and “Tatiana” written beneath.

His eyes followed her as she again crossed the street and into the Michael’s tenement only to find he was next in line to be served. “Receipt Please,” the smiling Korean held out his hand.

“Ah, sorry, I must have left it at home. My name is John Smith.”

“Okay,” he replied in his rather abbreviated English. While the clerk was in back looking, Jack reached into the basket and pulled out the receipt. The name read, “T. Darcos,” in very legible script. However, the address below read: “6230 Cl . . .,” followed by some scribble. Her name was written in pen, her address in pencil. Obviously it had been written by two different people. One who knew how to spell Dracos, the other by someone who hadn’t a clue how to spell whatever the street name was.

It was a small local business so he felt it safe to assume the street would be in the general area. “No find clothes, Mister,” the clerk shrugged with a pleading look as if praying that would be the end of it, and thankfully it was.

“Oh, sorry, I must be the wrong cleaners,” Jack bid his good-bye and hurried back to the Van.

“Did you get it, Arn?”

“Sure did,” he beamed while holding up the Nikon with a telescopic lens. “36 shots, and with this lens you’ll be able to spot the color of her eyes.”

“Perfect! How long before you can get them developed?”

“Well, I can have the patrol car meet me at the corner to pick them up. The lab should be able to wrap it up in about 90 minutes, perhaps less.”

“Great, you got a map?” Arn dug out a map from the front cab and waited while Jack searched for the street. He found only two streets nearby beginning with “Cl.” One was Clement, the other was Claymore farther away and thus not likely.

“Got it! Okay, here’s the deal. When Cecil gets back show him the pictures and tell him the target has changed. Instead I want him to focus on this girl. Her name is Tatiana Darcos. Her address is 6230 Clement and she works at the Pink Flamingo. The same thing applies. Follow her. I want to know everything about her.

“Got it, Jack.”

“Where are you headed?”

“I’ve got business in New Jersey to attend to.”
 
 
Scene XII: An Ode to a Vampire
 
 
It was late evening Moscow time, 8 A.M. New York time when the final faxed transmission lay sprawled out over Dr. Rutherford’s desk. Knee deep in documents, he had been at it non-stop for the past 23 hours and he looked it. He was on his 8th cup of black coffee and his office reek of Timberland tobacco. He looked up at the clock then sat down and picked up the phone to call the receiving desk. “Morning Martha, it’s Professor Rutherford again.”

“Yes, yes, a very long night. Tell me, has that text I requested from Dr. Caruthers at Columbia University arrived yet? Sure, I’ll hold.” Carl tucked the phone under his chin and managed to unzipped yet another pouch of tobacco before Martha White again came on line. “It is? Finally!” He sighed, “Thanks Mrs. White, you’re a lifesaver. I’ll be right over.”

An hour later Jack received a call from an excited Carl Rutherford. After hanging up he hurriedly dropped what he was doing then dashed off to the University. Carl hadn’t said what he found, but whatever it was Jack knew it had to be important. Then when he saw the haggard Professor slumped over his desk he was sure of it.

“Mr. Murphy, please come in. As you can see it took some doing, but I think I’ve got the thing you were looking for. Come, have a look,” he beckoned Jack to have a look at the faxed documents. Topping the agenda was a document with a letter head that had been translated from Romanian to read, “Bureau of Medical Science and Research.”

“Tell me, how did you get access to all this?” Jack beamed in wonderment.

“I got it from an old friend who works for the Russian police in Moscow. He’s high enough up the food chain to get the Romanian’s to forward what I needed. He owned me one so I decided to call in the favor. Now I’ve taken the liberty to translate the Romanian, but if you’re not satisfied I can run across the hall and fetch another language expert.”

“No, that’ll be fine. What does it say?”

“It says that Dr. Sanda Vladimirescu once headed the Institute of Behavioral Psychology in Bucharest. She was then given directorship of Citizen’s Hospital #62 where she worked until fleeing to the West. Now here we have Exhibit #B,” he hands him a page long document detailing her known history.

“As you can see, she had a rather pristine record. Well respected, towed the party line, destine for bigger, better things. She had even been the recipient of numerous awards as you can see outline below. Then out of the blue the police issue a warrant for her arrest. Exhibit #C,” he holds out yet a third document.

“This is a copy of the arrest warrant. Apparently an investigation by the State Police into the dealings of the Bratva led right to her door. Of course, by the time the news hit the street, she had already gone underground, only to re-emerge in West Germany two months later.

“Bratva, that’s the name of their crime syndicate, right?”

“Yes, it literally means secret brotherhood. It’s an organization that has been around for a long time with tentacles that stretch world-wide.”

“So? This doesn’t mean she’s broken any laws nor does it make her a criminal. They could have fabricated the charge to get rid of her for all we know. I’m sure the immigration folks will want to have a look at this, but not a criminal court. That’s the way it works with American jurisprudence, it’s either put up or shut up.”

“Yes, I am aware of that,” he conceded, “but that wasn’t what you asked me to find. You asked me to demystify the foundation that unites this group. You spoke of ‘privileges’ and ‘hierarchy’ and the prevailing ‘secrecy,’ and that’s the case I am prepared to present to you.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“Whether or not there is merit to the charge has no bearing here. It simply shows they wanted to jail a woman who was not only a card carrying party loyalist, but without a mark on her record. The only question we need to ask is why would such a woman suddenly fall into disfavor? For whatever reason, it does show the extent they went through to rid themselves of her.”

“Now, given what we know about her thus far, I took the liberty to track down a copy of an obscure Vlachian text I once read which I thought might have some bearing on this case. I just got it this morning. Here,” he responded hurriedly as if he couldn’t open the book fast enough. “I’d like you to listen to this passage. It’s a preface to a 14th century manuscript written by cleric known only as Mathias:”
 
 

 
 
“You lost me Doc. Blood, feast, Dark Prince, rise with the night. This is beginning to sound like a Saturday matinee horror show, but this doesn’t tell me who’s behind the black mask.”

“You do read the Marquee before you pay your 10 cent admission, right Mr. Murphy?”

“Sure, but I’m the type of guy who needs to see it for himself. If the guy behind the mask isn’t revealing himself, I need to sift through the clues until the irrefutable evidence reveals itself.”

“Exactly, and that’s what this case is all about!” he emphatically stated his case. “It’s about finding a way to get those who know what’s going on to cough up the secret they are hiding.”

“How are you planning to do that? Sing’um this silly ode to a vampire?”

“It’s a stanza and it may be silly to you, but to some it’s a blood oath of allegiance to defend themselves against the hordes who would do them harm. In this case that would be the enemies of the Vlachian’s. Their leader is described as someone of great power and strength and who bears the ring.”

“Please note that Dr. Vladimirescu is Vlachian and has also been described as a person of great power and strength. The ring she wears also bears up to the description of the Blood Ring.”

“I think I also need mention that similar oaths of allegiance are used by crime organizations such as the Bratva as well. Now putting two and two together, does that ring in the stanza have any meaning to you, Mr. Murphy?”

“I don’t know, should it?” Jack squinted, uncertain as to how to reply.

“Think, sir,” he implored, asking him to follow the logic of the problem. “Think of the photograph of Dr. Vladimirescu and the ring on her finger.”

“Yeah, so, she had on a large ring on the wrong hand and on the wrong finger that didn’t quite fit the Gestapo-like image she was projecting. How’s that a blood ring?”

“Ah, so glad you asked, sir.” He finally turned a smile then pulls out a large blow up of the ring taken from the photograph. “Do you see the figure carved into the surface of the stone?”

“Yes,” he peered in close with one eye squint. “It would appear to be a crude image of a man standing with shield and spear, perhaps, I’d guess, a quarter inch in diameter.”

“That’s 6.30 millimeters to be exact. Is it small? You bet! Is it crude, primitive? Without a doubt! Is the enlarged image a bit fuzzy? Absolutely, but it’s also unmistakable. It’s the link between that ring, the stanza and Dr. Vladimirescu. We now know what they know, and it is for us to use that knowledge to get them to hand over the information you’re looking for.”

“So you’re saying all this isn’t about vampires at all. You’re saying this is just an old belief that the Bratva use to gain blood allegiance from those caught up with the myth?”

“Exactly! Although I can assure you, those who follow are quite convinced it is all very real. To them, Sanda Vladimirescu might well be seen as the one to whom the ring was intended. The very one who will lead and protect them.”

“You know, I saw an image like that just a few days ago.” He followed as if rediscovering an old fact. “It was on a tapestry in this young fellow’s apartment. I had a hunch he might have something to do with Sonya Pavel’s death, so I had him followed.”

“A man bearing a shield and spear like this one?” he asked, obviously intrigued by the possibility of a connection.

“Sure, he even wore a similar ring. He was standing in a cathedral. It was very old and beautifully done. All hand woven and definitely not made in the good old U.S. of A.”

“You said he has some connection to this case?”

“Well . . . yeah, kind of. Like I said, the only link appeared to be his car. The still unidentified suspect in the death of Sonya Pavel had used his car to vacate the premises. He has a solid alibi, but now . . .”

“What’s that, detective?” Carl cut in.

“It does seem a bit odd to find something like that in a boy’s apartment. He’s 19 no less, and there’s something else odd about him too. This kid lives in a tough neighborhood. You know, the kind of place where you don’t dare walk out at night. Yet this kid comes and goes unmolested, the house where he lives completely immune. We’re not talking Jake La Motta here, doc. We’re talking a skinny white kid as wimpy as they come. Whatever it is the kid has working for him, it’s gotta be some serious mojo.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“I’d need a warrant. Plus you see it’s like this, Doc. Presenting to a judge the link to a criminal’s past, plus eye witness testimony or material evidence are all things the law can sink its teeth into. However, to ask me to present to a judge some hoodoo from a medieval kook who saw folks running around with fangs sucking up blood is a bit out of my jurisdiction. Especially since the Defense is going to be pointing out to the judge that most of those folks consumed Peyote as often as you fill-up that pipe.”

“That would’ve probably been hashish, Mr. Murphy. Nonetheless, it’s not important that a judge or you or I believe it. It’s that others do. After all, what is myth if not the thread that runs though every culture, every society? More often than not, it’s the very thing that binds us. In fact, I’m sure if you examine your own heart you’ll find a myth or two that you structure your belief system around as well.”

“Still, if you are not convinced this theory has merit, all you need to do is test it.” He shrugged.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to walk up to Yuri and say, “open wide fella so I can inspect your Canine teeth?”

“You’re going back to Waterston?” Carl asked seemingly out of the blue.

“Tomorrow morning!”

“Take me with you.”

“No can do, professor.” He pointed his index finger like the barrel of appointed gun. “I can’t have you interfering with police work. Besides, I might be dangerous and the department can’t be held responsible for the liability.”

“The University will sign a release, and as for interfering, if I am right, you’ll not solve this without me.”

“You sound quite sure of yourself, Doc. No offense or nothing, because I can really respect that in a guy. Especially one who has put in the extra muscle into this case you have, but I still can’t take you with me.”

Although . . .,” Jack eased his stance. “I see no reason why you can’t follow me in your own car. I guess you’ve earned that much. Just remember, if you’ve something to say pass it by me first. Got it?”

“Sure, I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Yeah, well, don’t go forgetting that. Now I’ve got one for you. This red harvest thing you read about.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve heard the term before, in reference to the annual cherry harvest. Now I’m not sure whether they grow cherries in Romania or not, but somehow I don’t think that’s what that guy Mathias was talking about. What do you suppose it means?”

“Don’t know, but then that’s what we’re going to find out, isn’t it?”
 
 
Scene XIII: Cecilia
 
 
“Hurry along now sweetie,” Francine harped at her harried protégé struggling to keep up. Her pace was neither rushed nor hasty nor out of character for a woman wearing the same style dress and shoes. In fact, she looked as if on a leisurely stroll down the street, her glide smooooth and effortless. No, that wasn’t Cecil’s problem. His problem was the tightness of that skirt that imprisoned his knees and the height of his heels that conspired to impose a speed limit on his waddling, tiptoed, minced step.

He looked none the less for wear however. That sleek, hip hugging black beauty he wore had neither crease nor crinkle when they finally reached their destination. The glittering silver spangles sewn in even sparkled beneath the street lights as Francine knocked upon the door to the surveillance van. “Yoo-hoo, anybody home? It’s Francine with a pretty little package to deliver all wrapped up with a pretty little bow.”

Arn opened the door. “ShaZzzam!” he chortled. “Special de-liv-er-eee!” he bubbled with glee. “Looking good there little buddy, err, or is that Bud-dette?”

“That’s Cecilia, Mr. Fife. Please, the poor dear is already in such a state we needn’t ruffle her feathers anymore than necessary.”

“Darn if that riggin’ don’t look near bullet proof,” Arn followed with a toothy, conspiratorial grin. “It doesn’t look like he’s going to be slipping out of that anytime soon.”

“Honey, I used everything but a blow torch. He sealed in and vacuum packed. A nuclear explosion would do nothing but enhance that radiating glow.” Arn couldn’t stop chuckling as he helped Cecil step into the van then gave his thanks to a rather smug and thoroughly satisfied Francine Frangella.

For Cecil it took two hits from the flask of Irish whiskey to settle him down. Arn needed four, just to ease the pain in his gut from the laughter, or so he told Cecil.

“Well little buddy, looks like you’ve caught yourself a break.” He finally found his focus. The whiskey had a way of doing that for him.

“Jack was here and we’ve got us some new marching orders,” he followed as he flung the folder containing the photos onto Cecil’s lap. “That’s the girl in Michael’s apartment. Her name is Tatiana Darcos. Her address is 6230 Clement and she works at the Pink Flamingo.”

“Holy cow, then this must be the girl who drove Michael’s car.” Cecil sounded off elated while Arn found himself staring as if mesmerized, still unable to wrap his mind around the thought that it was actually Cecil behind those deep dark sensuous eyes and those breathtaking, blood red lips.

“Damn, you look hot, bro!”

“Cut it, Arn!” Cecil bitterly lashed out. “Jack thinks this is the girl?”

“Yup, he said the same deal applies. He wants you to on her tail 24/7 starting now.”

“Is she still in the apartment?”

“Don’t know, haven’t seen her recently. I got those pictures when she went to pick up some clothes from the cleaners. She came back, but I’ve not seen her since. My guess is she must have slipped out while I was using the facilities.”

“Yeah right! Facilities! Damn, Arn,” he added not bothering to hide his agitation. “Well, at least now I can call Francine tomorrow to undo all this. In the meantime, we’ve got the girl’s address so let’s go find a spot and follow her from there.”

Clement Street was only two blocks away, but it was a very long street. Running parallel to Sanger, it ran on for miles. From blocks numbered in the hundreds to the blocks numbered in the thousands, but it stopped before it reached the six thousands. “He must have gotten it wrong,” Arn muttered, scratched his head while fiddling with the map. Moving it up, down, forward and back as if to make the missing block suddenly appear.

“Try right side up, Arn.” Cecil, err, Cecilia shook her head. Then seemingly out of the blue, “Hey, Arn, the Flamingo’s on Claymore Street, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember the address?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“She works at the Flamingo. Claymore, Clement, you think he got them mixed up?”

“Come be, though it ain’t like Jack to make a mistake like that.”

“Huh! Well, let’s head back to Michael’s, wait it out and I’ll call Jack in the morning.”

“Better yet,” Arn intervened, “We know where she works. It’s 9 o’clock. She’s probably at work. We could follow her back home from there. It ought to work perfectly. Besides, you’re already dressed for it. No use letting all that pretty lipstick go to waste,” he chuckled.”

“Stuff it, Arn,” Cecil spat out, though he had to concede it was a well thought out tact. All he needed to do was grit his teeth, bear the indignity and the agony of those heels just one more time. Which he did, all the way to the Pink Flamingo reciting the mantra, “I can do this, I can do this” like an athlete psyching up before the big race.

“You got a hundred, Arn?” he asked, looking into his little black clutch.

“What for?”

“The doorman, so I can get in. That’s what for, butt head.”

“Huh, I don’t think so, sugar. Just flash him that pretty smile and I can guarantee he’ll be wanting to pay you. Plus you’ll be getting all the free drinks you can handle. Heck, if you’re lucky, it might even get’cha a one way ticket to Las Vegas honeymoon suite.”

A wise man that Arn. He had that doorman pegged from half a block away. The guy who had bullied him when they had last met, now nearly tripped over himself pushing that door open to escort him in. Which Cecil did quite hurriedly, thanks to a pinch on his ass that rocketed those heels into a high stepping gallop with an amazingly high pitched, “Ooooh!”

He was right about the free drinks too. They were flung at him from all directions by men marketing the charm. The routine was “duck, weave and evade” for more than an hour. Yet throughout he kept a look out for Tatiana, who like Michael before, was nowhere to be seen.

“Another casualty of the room beyond the pink light,” he assumed with a sigh as he decided to give up the search. That is, if he could only get rid of the ripe, middle aged gentlemen who was hanging on to him. With one arm wrapped around his waist while breathing into his ear, the Piranha from Plainview simply refused to let him go.

Of course it didn’t help that he simply could not say no. For as stunning as he looked, or how artfully he managed his role, he dare not open his mouth for fear of giving himself away. Fact is, just one peep in his masculine tenor would’ve blown his cover and probably earned him a punch in the nose. That left only his hands and the universal shaking of his pretty head to say “no.” That meant it took some doing to wrangle himself free. Which he eventually did, then rushed out with a quick paced, waddling, tiptoeing mince that would have done Francine Frangella proud.

“So why the hissy-fit,” Are laughed, “He didn’t cop a feel, did he?” he cajoled as he again handed Cecil the flask to help settle him down. “So, did you see her?”

“Heck no! There wasn’t a decent looking babe in the room. There isn’t anything in there except lechers, leaches, octopi and piranha. Like I told you, all the action is in the back room. Or wherever, cause it sure isn’t happening in there.”

“Then I guess we’d better head back to Michael’s and wait it out. In the morning we can call Jack and see where we go from here.”

“Yeah, whatever! Just get me away from here. I need to freshen up.”

“Freshen up?’ Arn laughed. “I think that dress is starting to wear on you, little buddy.”
 
 
Scene XIV: A Deal Goes Down
 
 
By 8 A.M. the next morning Jack was on his way to the Essex county Police Department. In his review mirror he saw Carl Rutherford’s blue Oldsmobile following close behind. He had called the night before to ask for assistance. Not only because Waterston, New Jersey, was not his jurisdiction, but if anything did go down he’d need all the muscle he could get. He was put in touch with Detective Monday and was on his way to meet up with him in his office.

Abe Monday had a bushy gray moustache and was balding on top. He seemed a bit sedate and overfed for a guy still chasing down bad guys. He was a big fellow though, with a big face and a scowl built right in. Then when he opened up with his coarse Bedford-Stuyvesant accent, well, that sealed the deal as far as Jack was concerned. They were going to get along just find.

An ex-NYPD detective from Manhattan, Abe had managed his escape from the street wars 5 years prior and was now the Chief Detective for the more tranquil Essex County Police Department. His story seemed perfectly scripted from Jack’s point of view, even if he was the last guy on earth who’d ever own up to it. Although, he had to admit there were mornings. More so recently it seemed, when he’d wake up and wonder if that country home with a cherry orchard round back might be right for him as well.

He and Jack were kindred spirits, and after Jack had presented his case, they set out with Carl Rutherford in tow like two old warships armed and ready and still in the hunt for the enemy no matter how rough the sea. Their plan of attack was to concentrate their fire on the most vulnerable target. In this case that happened to be Arina Stansila. The frightened housekeeper, who felt rather slighted by Vlady and for some reason, rather incensed with her fellow compatriots.

She seemed rather pissed at Jack as well for having come back, and again, she wasn’t about to let him in. Nor was she happy when Abe flashed his badge in her face when she again tried to slam the door in his face.

“Arina, I’d like your cooperation. If you’re willing, the law is more likely to listen to anything in way of defense you might have to offer.” Jack’s tone was steadfast.

“Defense? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I’ve every reason to believe you know what has happened to Michelle Pavel and that you are now endeavoring to conceal that fact. Furthermore, you knew Dr. Vladimirescu was not a licensed therapist when Michelle was her patient. Failing to report that makes you an accomplice, a punishable offense. After that, you can count on the INS putting you on the first flight back to Romania. So I need to ask you again, where is Michelle?”

“I told you, I do not know.”

“Well, that is yet to be determined, Arina, and I will find out. Where is Dr. Vladimirescu now?”

“She’s in Germany with Mihaela Ceausescu. She went on business.”

“When will she return?”

“I do not know. Nobody knows, but it must be soon. Yuri and Egore already prepare for the harvest.”

“You were the housekeeper, right?”

“Yes.”

“That gave you a unique insight into what went on in that house, didn’t it Arina? I’ve heard some from Egore and Yori, now I need hear it from you.”

“No, I do not know all that they know. I’m just a housekeeper.” Jack could see the fear written on her face, but not of him. It was obvious that whatever hung over her head held greater sway than did the mere threat of jail, and he wondered whether he had chosen the right tact.

“Then you have chosen not to cooperate, Arina?” He prodded, hoping to get her to see the seriousness of what she faced.

“If that is your decision, then I must warn this may not play out well for you.” He fired yet another bullet hoping to pierce through her silence. Instead she just stood there for an indeterminately long length, head down, her tears cascading down to the floor.

He was just about to fire off yet another round when Carl Hutchinson stepped in. It was obvious he had no intention of honoring the promise he had made to Jack.

“The Blood ring!” he blurted out, even though Jack had told him to say nothing without discussing it with him first. Jack was pissed and was just about to pull him back by the ear when Arina looked up with a gaze as searing as molten steel.

The intensity of her response and that look in her eye was all the evidence Jack needed. She not only knew about the ring, but the ring was the one thing she feared more than jail.

“I know about it, Arina! When Vlady is caught, and she will be caught, Detective Monday is going to put that ring into a box. That box is going to be locked in a larger box and packed into a crate. Then that crate is going to be stored in a secure locker at some unknown location 5 floors below ground alongside millions of other articles of evidence under armed guard. Even worse, the ring will be lost to you and all the generations to follow.”

“Throughout all those centuries you and your brethren have endured immense suffering to protect that ring. Now all that you fought to protect lies solely in your hands. Either you let Detective Monday seal the ring away in that box, or you tell Detective Murphy what he wants to know. If you do, I’ll claim the ring as a treasure of Romanian antiquity, and if and when it can be safely returned to your fatherland, it will be. The choice is yours.”

“Vlady will protect it,” Arina replied, looking down, avoiding their eyes. Obviously she didn’t look like a woman overwhelmed with conviction. Rather, she looked afflicted, as if filled with disappointment and regret.

“No she won’t and you know it. I heard you speak. You have no faith in her. In fact, I don’t think you trust Dr. Vladimiresu anymore than I do. The way I see it, you have no loyalty to her, only the ring. Now you need honor that ring and your countrymen, Arina.”

Arina grew upright again, her eyes glowing with a fierce determination, knowing what must be done. “No, I’ve done nothing wrong. If I tell you all, you give the ring to me and I’ll return to Germany and place it in safe keeping. For that I help you find Vlady and Michelle and rid you of what plagues you.”

“If you are innocent as you say, it’s a deal,” Jack pushed forward to take her hand. “The ring need not even go into States evidence if I have all the evidence I need to convict her. Give me what I need and I promise you the ring.”

“Come, I will show you.” she said pointing to the door, drawing her house keys from her pocket. “I have the key.”

Murphy's Law Book II: Red Harvest Part II: Scenes I-III By Josie Jack Murphy once again delves into the murky underworld to find a missing girl. Armed with only his dry-wit and cynicism, he journeys to a quiet little farm town called Waterston. It’s a beautiful place, renown for its cherries and the orchards that dotted the landscape against the rolling green hills beyond. But it’s also a world where the hunter becomes the hunted and where the forces of good collide with the evil cloaked in the myth and mysticism of an ancient belief. It’s also a place where some find the "Red Harvest sinfully wild to enjoy, while others find nothing more than disappointment and regret . . ."

 
 
Scene: I: Big Fish
 
 
Cecil looked at himself in the mirror, which was something he rarely did, really, a man never does. Oh sure, as a kid he’d stand there wrapped in a towel after a shower and flex, pose and run through the usual checklist to facial expressions to see how he compared. Then as a young man to work out that balance between ruggedness and sophistication the ladies find so appealing. It’s all quite heady and yes, sometimes vain, but always in a reflective way.

A boy doesn’t use a mirror to change what he sees. He uses the mirror to help make what he sees work. Much like you might use a backboard to increase your odds at making a shot, but as any good coach will tell you, not as a tool to create a shot that isn’t already there.

Now here he was at age 24, a year out of the academy, two years out of college dressed as a woman looking at that backboard as his sole means of making that two-pointer. Not in a reflective way, but as a woman might, with shrewdness and guile. It was a whole new relationship with a mirror, but a necessary distraction for a rookie cop undercover for the first time. Leastwise that’s how he saw it.

“A distraction?” he wondered while powdering his nose exactly the way Francine had showed him. “Sure, just something I gotta do to make sure I’m not made. Or done,” he furrowed his lovely wing-swept brows when giving that notion a second thought. Although there was a slight devilish up tick to his facial expression as well. There’s always some vanity in knowing you’d gotten it just right. With just enough hauteur and allure to gain access to his target, knowing he’d done his job well.

“That’s all it is after all,” Cecil tried to convince himself while putting the compact back in his clutch. “It’s just a job.” Although it did worry him some that the word “allure” had just popped into his head, seemingly from out of nowhere. For some reason just the sound of it besieged his sensibilities like the heady scent of his perfume.

“Freshen-up? Allure?” God, I’ve got to get out of this stuff fast,” Cecil verbalized his thoughts while Cecilia used a tissue to clean the errant traces of black mascara from the corner of her eye.

“There now, all done,” Cecilia smiled, taking a bit of pride in her work, and yes, a little pride in herself too. Now for her trial and the verdict of her jurors as she walked out of the women’s restroom and then sauntered past her admirers sitting at the tables and lined up at the bar. Though not so quick as to pass on that Pink Lady, offered by a man who’d managed to lasso her in. Of course she did try to gesture an appeal, but with no voice of her own what choice did a lady have but surrender to his will and the arm wrapped around her waist.

“Besides, surrender now and live to fight another day.” That’s how it went, right?” Or so that’s what Cecilia told herself as she engaged his smile to the “clink” of the cocktail glasses. Then nodding her thanks she bid a gracious, “toot-a-loo,” as she made a quick exit out of the Starlight Lounge.

Cecil looked down the block and spotted the surveillance van and wondered how Arn was holding up on his own. It was already approaching sunset. A bad time to leave a man with an itch to scratch all alone to his own devises. Especially one who is already on a first name basis with the liquor store clerk just a few doors down. Still, there is always reason to hope.

He looked at his watch, realizing he’d spend an hour inside the lounge primping up. So he hurried back and to his surprise found Arn had been very well behaved. Well, sort’a! Leastwise he was still sober, though no less the foolhardy, insensitive pain in the butt.

“Woooh! Lookie here!” he ogled and cooed, “Ooooo and aah,” then rattled on as if the delirious effects of abstinence were eating away what was left of his brain. “I’m telling you sweet cheeks, you are hot!”

“Cool it, Arn. You’re married.” Arn laughed and Cecil muttered to himself, “Damn, I’ve got to stop drinking those Pink Ladies.”

Cecil sat down on the swivel seat across of Arn, remembering to keep his legs crossed before sitting back to have a look at what had been keeping Arn so pleasantly distracted. Aligning the interior wall panels now hung a row of 8x10 framed glosses of Tatiana dressed in that flaming pink windbreaker and short white pleated shirt slinking across the street.

“What in the heck are you doing, Arn?” Cecil asked, but Arn didn’t respond. Rather he just stared and smiled like a starry-eyed punch-drunk man watching the words flow from those candy apple lips like weightless tiny pink bubbles floating whimsically his way.

“Arn, Arn,” Cecil snapped his fingers. “What’s with you?” Cecil had elevated his voice to a level of harshness that finally managed to cut through Arn’s state of delirium, and along with it, those tiny pink bubbles drifted away with the return of his senses.

“Aaaah, I’m aah, not really sure,” he replied scratching his head. “I guess I was just bored, or something. Hey, don’t mind me, I kind of get like this sometimes.” He grinned foolishly, like a boy suddenly startled out of his daydream by his angry teacher. He looked up to see what he had done, shook his head and said, “Huh! Fishing!”

“What’s that Arn?”

“Oh, just something my uncle told me when I was a kid back in Ireland. He was a fisherman. You see back then, fishing was akin to religion, only instead of holy this and holy that, it was fishing this, fishing that. I remember he once sat me on his lap and said to me life is like fishing. You’re always looking for the big one. The trick is, when you spot her swimming close in to the rocks, don’t go letting her out of your sights.”

“That makes Tatiana the big one, right?”

“Yeah, well, even at 8 I knew he weren’t talking about no mackerel.”

“I think this job is getting to you, Arn. Although, I do thank you for holding your post even as hard as I know it had to be.”

“Nah, I just gotta keep busy, that’s all.”

“You haven’t seen her?” Cecil enquired.

“Who, the big fish?” Arn followed while looking up at the pictures he’d taken such care to align in a perfect row.

“Yeah, Arn, the one you saw swimming close in to the rocks.”

“Nope, just Michael. How about you? Did you get in touch with Jack?”

Nothing, I tried three times. He checked out a car at 5 this morning and hasn’t been in contact since.”

“What did the log say?” Arn asked.

“That he was going to Waterston. Do you know where or what that is, Arn?”

“Not really sure. The only Waterston that comes to mind is a small town in New Jersey. I used to take the wife up there come cherry season.”

“Huh, I wonder what’s going on up there?” Cecil found himself looking at yet another group of photos sprawled out on the table as if Arn had been scrutinizing them as well. Photos of him Arn had taken the night before as he was leaving the Pink Flamingo.

One picture showed him standing at the curb waiting to cross the street. Behind him there was a crowd milling about, and in the forefront two ladies, one in red and one in blue dolled up for a night on the town. Both in their mid-twenties, slim, attractive prime U.S. cut beef. Yet seeing himself juxtaposed between, he could scarcely tell himself apart.

“I was just about to hang them up next.” Arn chuckled at his cleverness.

“Stick it,” Cecil spat out, though it was clear to both the words had left their mark, somewhere between his new found vanity and the remnants of masculine bravado. Cecil or Cecilia in this case, didn’t seem the hesitant, weak-kneed, star-struck dumb blond bimbo she appeared two days ago. She had a new air of confidence about her, one even Cecil himself could sense.

“So, I guess we just wait and watch for Michael to leave for work again. You go back in, keep an eye out for Tatiana and we’ll see what happens.”

“Yeah, but I’m not going in the front way this time.”

“You’re not?” Arn perked up. “You’re going in as Olga?”

“That’s why we did this, right? I mean, that’s what we’ve been planning from the start.”

“Yeah, but there’s something else about that Cliff Morgan story I ain’t told you yet. Something I’ve been meaning to tell you, but ain’t got around to just yet.”

“Yeah, and when were you fixing to tell me?” he sounded a bit irate.

“Ah, now, don’t be getting your panties in no uproar, girlie. I’ve been fixin’ too. You see, it’s like this.” Arn cleared his throat. “Ol’Cliff he did exactly like I said. Only it didn’t go so smooth. He was spotted, and after they broke a couple of bones he wasn’t so happy he done it.”

“Gee, thanks for telling me Arn!” He uncorked. “Were you planning on telling me on the way to the Coroners?”

“Now, now, it ain’t like that. They didn’t kill him, but it is dangerous work. I want you to keep that in mind. Protect yourself, be on your toes and if you sniff out trouble, run like hell if you can. If not, well, I ain’t letting you go in by yourself without this.” Arn opened a cabinet and pulled out a tiny Smith and Weston single shot Derringer.

“A pea shooter? You’re kidding. That’ll bounce off those guys.”

“I doubt that. Actually this little baby has quite a punch. 38 caliber and pretty darn accurate within 10 feet.”

“Ten feet! Okay, I’ll be sure to step them off before I pull the trigger.” Cecil responded sarcastically while contemplating his alternatives.

“Hey, better than using them heels. You can only poke out one eye at a time with that. With the other eye they’re going to be shooting for sure. Besides, it has something those heels don’t have.”

“What’s that?”

“The element of surprise. The thing’s so tiny you can hide it in your pantyhose. It comes with this sleek little holster too. Come on, try it on. Can’t hurt you none,” which was true. So he did try it on and found that Arn was right about the stealth aspects of the gun. Not to mention the sense of security he felt knowing that if need be, he’d have at least one good shot at saving his life.

He wore it for the remainder of the day and at 8 that night when Michael re-emerged with guitar case in hand he felt ready for most anything. They again followed Michael to work. Arn drove while Cecil slipped on the cleaning ladies smock, cap and pinned on “his” photo ID. Then like a sprinter preparing for a race, he psyched himself up to enter that service entrance door.

When they arrived, everything was setup just as they had planned. The Tepes Cleaning Company van again parked outside the rear entrance door and only one lady, not two stepped out to begin her nights work. A moment later Cecilia sucked in a deep breath, stepped out and made her way toward the parked van. She opened the side door, retrieved a bucket and mop and cool as a Flamingo in season she headed up that long flight of stairs.
 
 
Scene II: Caps
 
 
Jack, Abe, Carl and Arina made the short drive to Dr. Vladimirescu’s house in Arina’s car. Jack seemed to think even an unmarked police car seen outside her house would draw more unwanted attention than they needed. Abe drove and it was well that he did. Jack had a lot on his mind.

He looked in the back seat where Arina sat beside Carl. Her eyes were still moist and her anguish was etched on her face. She looked as if she’s aged a quarter century in the last 5 minutes, and as Jack again turned back around he felt as if he had as well. The fact that Carl had been right about that ring had thrust this case into a whole new arena.

There were now others involved. Arina, perhaps even Yuri, Egore and the rest of this small immigrant community who were bound by the power that ring held over them. He still didn’t understand any of it, but he knew Sonya’s mysterious death and Michelle’s disappearance would be left to the annals of the forgotten for time and continuum until he did. He also knew this was a place where he’d have to tread carefully or risk putting himself or others in jeopardy.

“Funny,” Jack uttered, unconsciously voicing his thoughts, “All this beauty and bounty, and beneath it, the disappointment and regret.”

“What’s that?” Abe asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Jack went on to say. “My folks used to bring me out here when I was a kid. The ocean of white blossoms that dotted the landscape with the rolling green hills beyond seemed quite amazing to me, a city kid.”

“Yes,” was the only way Abe knew how to respond to something so personal.

“You know, we’re going to need a warrant, Abe,” Jack said in a low voice, just auditable enough to be heard over the sound of tires over hard gravel as they approached the house.

“I’ll call Judge Barnes when we get there. Arina is inviting us in so as long as we don’t touch nothing before the warrant arrives we’ll be okay.”

“It’ll need to be sent by an unmarked car. We don’t need to arouse anymore suspicion than is necessary.”

“Yeah, I thought of that. A mail truck ought to do it.” Abe was on top of things. Jack felt a comfort in that. His voice had a quiet, reassuring strength of a man whose thoughts and his pace where in cadence with his own. He looked poised and cool, his face as unstirred and expressionless as the few words he spoke. Yes, Jack was glad he was here.

At the foot of the driveway they saw a large red bucket perched upon a tree stump that had been strategically placed beside the lamp post directly in front of them. There were several long thin spars, or spears sticking out of the bucket, each with an impaled crow on display at the end. The car came to a stop.

“What in the hell is that?” Jack, Abe and Carl stared in disbelief, but not Arina. She stepped out and the others followed like bloodhounds to gather around the bucket three-quarters full of a blood red fluid.

Jack reached down to test it. “Cherry juice,” he concluded, holding his finger up to show the familiar red stain.

“Yes, it’s a sign they gather tonight. They sense something is coming.”

“Cherry juice is a sign? Of what?” Jack asked.

“It means the blood of their enemy.” Arina followed.

“Who’s the enemy, us or the lusting crows?” Abe inquired lightheartedly, finding the link between the two somewhat funny. Only Arina wasn’t buying into it.

“Not you. They did not know you were coming here. Someone else!”

“I wonder where it came from? The harvest is still two weeks away.” Abe seemed more interested in the ‘who-done-it’ than why it was done.

“Yuri and Egore know where they are ripe.”

“So now we know who did this,” he followed, conscious of her deliberate glare.

“Yes, Yuri and Egore gather the others.”

“Huh!” Jack grunted, “Red Cherries, red blood.”

“From the harvest,” Carl cut in, “Red blood, red harvest! I think we found what we were looking for, Jack. Red Harvest means a blood harvest.”

“Yes, but whose?” Jack’s voice tailed off into an ominous void.

“Come, we must hurry,” Arine expressed the need for urgency. “The night draws near.”

Arina showed them in and Abe placed his call. The estimate was that it would take about an hour for the warrant to arrive, so they used the time to become familiar with the place. It was a luxurious home. Well furnished and maintained, certainly above the standards of most homes in the area, but not so ostentatious as to stand out, or perhaps, draw unwanted attention. In a like manner, he saw no signs of anything improper or out of the ordinary.

In fact, there was almost a sterile quality to the place. Absent signs of people and movement with things untouched as if no one had even lived there. There were clothes in the closet of course, and food in the pantry as well. He also saw the usual array of household plants and pictures of Vlady and her friends in her bedroom. However, nothing looked used, or altered or out of place in the least. Likewise her office; which looked almost as if it had been setup in a department store window to entice the onlooker to buy into it.

Arina sat in the living room with Carl holding her hand while Jack and Abe looked about. Neither spoke, though like two old battle cruisers searching the still waters for the enemy sub beneath, neither had to. They both knew what the other was seeing. From the travel brochures and home decorating magazines Jack found stuffed in the office file cabinets, to the absence of scuff marks on the polished hardwood floors that Abe thought rather odd.

The garage, or what used to be the garage, looked quite different however. It had been converted in to an arts and crafts room that did look used, though not recently. As well, inside the house there were three doors that still remained locked. Obviously a keen point of interest, though they dare not ask about them until the postal carrier arrived with the warrant. An excruciating long wait, but when the courier finally did arrive neither could get the words out fast enough.

“Okay, Arina, it’s time to show us what we’re not seeing.”

Arina searched through her ring of keys then rose up, walked down the hallway and opened the first of those doors.

“So this is where they spent their time?” Jack asked of Arina while stepping inside.

“Here and in the garage, yes. They ate in the kitchen.”

Jack stepped in. The room was easily the largest room in the house. With a fireplace and a bay window, he speculated that it was once a sitting room that had been walled off. Inside, there was a lounge with a large library of books. Off to the right there was another door that led to a second office. It was small, but with everything from a telefax to an office safe, this was obviously the office she used.

Jack along with Abe looked inside the office, finding the desk strewn with paper work of all sorts. Abe sat down at the desk and picked up a letter then showed it to Jack. It was a business letter with the letter head “DB, Ltd.” A further look produced other documents with the same letterhead, and in the file cabinets, folders of business transactions engaged by that company that dated back years.

“What’s all this?” Jack enquired, handing one of the documents to Arina.

“It’s her company.”

“She owns a company? What is it, do you know?”

Abe cut in holding up yet another document he’d found. “It seems that DB, Ltd. is a West German based company. The DB stands for Dimitru Brothers. I don’t know about you, but that sounds kind of odd to me.”

“How so?” Jack lifted his nose up from his reading.

“It’s a West German company that operates under a Romanian name. That’s what’s odd! Why they do I don’t know. Furthermore, the CEO of the company is an expatriate Romanian. Namely, none other than Sanda Vladimirescu, the very woman we are looking for. This is a recently signed purchase agreement for a tenement in the Tremont District and signed by her.”

“Tremont?” Jack replied dismissively. “Only an idiot would invest money there.”

“Why?” Abe asked, though clearly he already knew the answer.

“It’s a war zone that’s why.” Jack fired back.

“For now, but if you have the muscle and the money to hold on to it, I’d say that’s about as close to investing in Fort Knox as you can get.”

“How so?”

“Location, location, location! It’s only a short jog from Manhattan, one of the most densely populated cities in the world. Plus from what I’ve heard, the government has been talking about pumping in urban redevelopment money in a big way. I’ve read about it in the papers. New expressways, bridge and harbor access and all. I’d bet in 10 years you won’t even recognize the place. Buying something like that at pennies to the dollar makes it some pretty valuable real estate.”

“You know, that kid Michael I have under surveillance lives in a place like that.”

“A Dimitru owned property?”

“I don’t know, but it fits. The place stands like a monument on the Capital Mall without a scratch on it, completely immune to the chaos going on around it.”

“Well, there you go - the muscle and the money! The only question is where does her company get the money?” Jack and Abe’s eyes met up at the large safe in the corner then met up again as Abe finished his thought. “I’m feeling lucky,” he grinned and then rubbed two fingers together next to his ear as if preparing to try his hand at opening the safe.

Jack left Abe to his search finding Carl sitting on the sofa beside a large bookcase. In one hand he had a book in the other his pipe. He walked over, quickly perusing the selection of books noting that all were children’s books; everything from learning the fundamentals of cursive writing to the fundamentals of Trigonometry. There was also an abundance of storybooks. Classics like Huck Finn and Call of the Wild, to children’s fairy tales. Some were written in English, though many were written in Romanian as well.

Jack came around and stood behind Carl to read off his shoulder. “Reading Fairytales, Carl?”

“Sort of. This is an 18th Century Romanian children’s fable about the big bad wolves that gather in the night to steal the peasant’s sheep and any children who happened to wander to far away in the night.”

“A Romanian version of the Big Bad Wolf?”

“Sort of, only to ward off the wolves they use shields. To do the wolves in they use spears. Then apparently they stick the severed head of the wolf on a pole and display it in the village to ward off any others who dare venture a try.” Carl showed him a picture of a wolf head sitting atop a pole with children dancing around it as they would a Maypole. Down the course of the pole ran a vivid red river of blood.

“Tough folks those Romanian’s,” Jack chuckled.

Arina came up along side. “Come, I show you her room.” She beckoned him to follow her to the door at the end of the hall.

“This is Vlady’s room, the one she uses” Arina whispered as she opened the door, almost with a caution as if still paying homage to those who lived there.

Jack peered into the darkness. A void so absolute, only the chill in the air could escape. The reason became clear once she flicked on the light. The windowless room void of any decoration or frills, housed nothing more than an unusually narrow bed with black bedding and a mirror-less dresser painted black as night.

He walked into the room. “No window?” he asked.

“No, she had it removed.”

“Huh!” Jack grunted, scanning the four walls as barren as those of a crypt.

“Interesting décor,” he followed trying to lighten the mood. “I figured the woman had gone batty, but this is insane asylum we’re talking here.”

Jack walked to the closet and was somewhat relieved to see that at least her choice of clothing expressed some color. Some black garments, but also some garments that were red and a preponderance of grays. He also found some men’s clothes as well. Shirts, slacks, shoes, “Perhaps the old broad isn’t so dead after all,” he chuckled to himself.

Again, he walked through the room. “No pictures or mirrors?” he asked.

“No, Vlady does not like them. Only this,” she added while walking over to the bed then pulled back the black cover revealing a large red crest centering the sheet. It was a large circle with a sword running down the center, its blade pointed down. There was a winged dragon on each side of the blade, each looking as if preparing to sting an enemy with its barbed tail.

“What does it say?” Jack reached out and traced his fingers over the embossed script along the perimeter of the circle.

“Defender of the people,” She replied.

“Is that like the Romanian flag, or something?”

“No, it’s only carried by the one.” Jack had heard something like that before. From Carl it immediately stuck him.

“Carl,” he calls out to the other room. “Come here and have a look at this.”

“Yeah, Jack,” he came rushing in, his pipe in one hand and book in the other. “What does that say, Carl?”

“It’s . . . her name. Sanda, Shield of the people, and that object I am assuming must be a family crest.”

“No, it means ‘to defend’, not shield,” Arina corrected.

“Well then, that’s it. It’s a family crest wore in battle.”

“Is that it, Arina?” Jack asked.

“Yes, but it is only borne by the one.”

“You mean the head of the family, that being Vlady, right?” Carl begged her to clarify.

“Yes, Vlady is the leader.”

“Will I find something like this in Michelle’s room?” Jack wanted to know.

“No, come I show you her room.”

Unlike Vlady’s room, Michelle’s looked pretty much as you’d find most any teenaged girl’s room. It was bright, colorful, mostly in pinks and whites with the normal assortment of dolls and pictures. Plus a vanity filled with every cosmetic known to mankind. You could almost hear the audible sound of relief when Jack finally spoke out. “Well, at least she was smart enough to keep her insanity locked up in that room.”

He had his look around. The closet had the normal assortment of lovely dresses, shoes and the like. Everything a girl could want, but there was something else he found too. Boy clothes, several pairs of slacks, a few long sleeve shirts and two pair of brown oxford dress shoes. He turned to ask Arina about his find when he spotted two pictures sitting on a nightstand just to his right.

He picked them both up. One he recognized as Michelle, an older Michelle, in her late teens and already a young woman. The other was of Michelle too, only different. In this picture she was dressed as a boy, and the more he looked at that picture, the more he kept seeing the likenesses of that boy Michael, the musician he had met.

“Arina?” his asked, though it sounded more like a plea for help as he held up the picture of Michelle. “Explain this one to me, please! Who is this?”

She didn’t move from her place at the door. “It is a picture of Michelle.”

“And this one?” he held up the other.

“Michael,” Arina replied.

“Michael? The musician Michael, the Michael Chapman I’ve been following?

“Yes! That is the same Michael Chapman.”

“What is it doing here, and why is it the two look the same to me?”

“That is because they are both the same person, Mr. Murphy.”

“What?” he screamed. “This is madness!” Jack stormed toward her unable to contain his anger. “Why didn’t you tell me, Arina?” he bellowed out his rage.

“I am telling you now.” She recoiled.

“Why?” he menaced, tight fisted as if prepared to knock out her lights.

“She did it because he was to become like her, a person of many faces. Michael, Michelle, Tatiana are all the same you see, and just as the world does not know Vlady’s identity, neither will the world know anything of Michael when it is his turn to bear the ring.”

“Tatiana Darcos? That is Michael too?”

“Yes, that is Michael. He plays the part well.”

“Damn!” Jack shook his head as if disbelieving the boy he’d met could possibly inhabit that body. “He sure had me fooled.”

“That is why.” Arina responded.

“For a disguise?”

“Yes, Vlady has many. She comes and goes as she wishes to appear. You look for one and find another with no way of knowing they are the same. Michael is to become like her. Only his transformation is not yet complete. There is yet another to emerge, and as his resistance weakens, so too does it grow stronger. Though unlike the others, its heart is cold and dark and distant.”

“Vlady?”

“Yes, but not the Vlady you see. Like I said, Vlady has many faces. Among other things, she is a woman, she is a leader and she is also a man.”

“Give me a break! You’re joking?”

“No, I am not. That is how she escaped to the west. They were looking for the woman they knew her to be.”

“Unbelievable! Who is this person?”

“A person with many faces, Mr. Murphy.”

“How could she have kept that hidden?”

“It’s not hard to hide. She appears as a woman. Who is to ask? Out of respect, authorities do not examine women as closely as you think.”

“So you’re saying it’s the Vlady part of Sanda, the male part of her that is the evildoer? As you say, the one with a heart that is dark, cold and distant? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, just as it will be for Michael when the other emerges.”

“Like a chrysalis in a cocoon?”

“Yes, he is a boy, but a child is not born with a heart that is cold, dark and distant. It requires someone like Vlady to bring that into being. Only he still does not want it. He wishes only to see himself as Michelle and Tatiana. That is why it still struggles to break free.”

"You mean Michael is still innocent. He has yet to be corrupted and she’s trying to change that. She wants a darker Michael who’ll embrace the evil as well. Is that it?” Jack labored to frame his thoughts.

“Yes, and when complete, him shall go by another name.”

“What name?”

“I do not know.”

“So let me see if I have this right. You knew this psychopath was trying to infect him with this madness and did nothing?” Jack again tightened up in anger.

“Yes, I knew, but I opposed her!” she was emphatic. “Like Dr. Rutherford has said, I’ve always known she isn’t who she says she is. Our leader is supposed to be the champion the common man, not herself.”

“Does that fit, Carl,” he asked him to verify.

“Yes, the person she is referring to is seen through myth and legend as a champion of the people’s cause. Although, he was also bloody ruthless, and damn good at it.”

“That fits. Like I said, she’s a psychopath.”

“True,” Carl relied, “but then the world is riddled with people who when feeling empowered by their beliefs can see no middle ground. Especially if they feel they’ve fighting for a cause.”

“Yes, in Romania she was called Sanda, not Vlady. I knew her as a good doctor, always a leader, but as a woman who did good and hurt no one. No one knew her otherwise until she escaped to the west. Only after becoming Vlady did she become the evil thing that sleeps in that room and feasts on the weaknesses of others.”

“She could not have done this without help.” Jack was furious and with clenched fists, made no attempt to hide it.

“Yes, she has help. She has West German financial partners who helped us flee to the west and gave us shelter in Frankfurt. That is when she and Milhaela came to us and showed us the ring. She said it was in her family for 500 years and now that she was free, she would take her rightful place.

“At first I did not know what to think. Perhaps part of me wanted to believe, but in my heart I knew it was not true. Wickedness and deceit are her life’s blood. That’s where she gets her strength, and when she needs to replenish, she feasts upon the blood of those who do not honor her. She is ruthless and cold and I despise her and those who blindly follow. So did Sonya. We both tried to oppose her.”

“She knew you two were working against her and did nothing? I hardly find that credible.”

“Yes, Vlady knew, but Sonya and I both had important roles to play. We were not expendable. Then a month ago Vlady told Michael in a fit of rage that our usefulness was done. She said she was going to Germany for others to take our places, and when she returned she was going to make us dig our own grave, bury our bodies and display our heads to scarce away the crows from the cherry orchard. Michael warned me and then went to warn Sonya. He told us to run, but the fight was not in Sonya. Even before Michael left the building after warning her, she jumped.”

“So Michael had nothing to do with it.”

“No! He simply went to warn her.”

“Why then report the car stolen?”

“It was just coincidence. Vlady told him to so an associate could use the car for important company business. Only the man did not come for the car. At the last minute he had changed his plans and used another instead. That’s when he went to see Sonya.”

“Important company business?” he shuttered to think what that might mean. “You mean unsavory business? He wanted it clarified.

“Yes.”

“I guess that speaks of her business. That also means you already knew Sonya was dead when I first came looking for Michelle. Yet you led me to believe you knew nothing about it.”

“I did, but I did not know you were police. You did not say. I was afraid you were sent by Vlady to test my loyalty, or worse, to kill me where I stood.”

“Why didn’t Michael say anything to me? He knew of the danger.”

“As I’ve said, to Michael Vlady is real. He is no longer strong enough to break the spell. Each day it grows worse. Soon he will be like her, no longer with a mind of his own.”

“He went to warn Sonya. Out of loyalty to her I assume because she was not his birth mother. So tell me, who is Michael? Where did he come from?”

“I am not certain. A woman I do not know brought him when we fled to the west. That’s all I know.”

“Was he an abandon child?” he asked, only before Arina could answer Abe came rushing in with an accounts receivable journal in his hand.

“Look at this, Jack.” He could scarcely contain his excitement.

“Dimitru Brothers is buying up those old tenements by the truck load, and where are they getting the money?” He held out the ledger.

“Let me guess,” Jack replied. “Racketeering!”

Big time, buddy! Protection money from hundreds of business both here and New York. Not only that, but they’re into the numbers game and gambling the likes of which I’ve never seen before. Here is the list.” He opens the ledger to show him the names.

“How did you get all this?” Jack could scarcely believe his eyes.

“Easy,” he chuckled, “That is once I found this,” he answered while showing Jack the number written on the palm of his hand.

“The combination,” Jack’s eyes lit up. “Where did you find it?”

“Right where you’d expect me to find it, on the bottom of the top desk drawer,” he beamed.”

“Right out of the text book,” Jacked laughed.

“Yup, and inside was this book. It lists every one of their operations, even deposit slips. “I’ve all I need,” he paused then with a steely look. “Jack! We’ve hit upon the mother load. We’re standing in the heart of roach city, the operational center of the Romanian syndicate!”

Jack looked down the list of 30 odd businesses listed under the Dimitru Brothers Company name. First on the list was the Pink Flamingo. “Aaah, damn!” Jack slaps his head. The Pink Flamingo! I’ve got an agent in there without backup.”

“The enemy in their midst,” Carl cut in.

“Yes,” Arine replied. “They gather for him.”

“I’ve got to get him out of there!” Jack bellowed out with a fierceness of a lion protecting his mate.

“Not so fast, buddy. You’ve yet to hear the bottom line.” He pulls out a receipt for the purchase of two airline tickets. They were for a Pan Am flight from Laguardia to Frankfurt, Germany. Departing May 3 and returning June 2nd, at 6:30 P.M. EST.

“That’s like . . . today!” Jack looked at his watch. “It’s 7:45 now!” he followed in a bit of a panic. “There’re on their way back home this minute.”

“That’s a 90 minute drive when the conditions are optimal,” Abe’s voice a little edgy as well. “That gives us 15 minutes tops.” Abe paused and gathered his thoughts. “I’ll call for backup and you see about getting your team out of the Flamingo!”

Only just as they started to leave they heard footsteps. Their eyes met up, realizing it was already too late. Jack signaled to Abe he was going out to look. Motioning for the others to stay low and remain quiet, the two old warships slowly advanced down the hall toward their target. Neither Jack nor Abe had a weapon. Abe’s was in the glove compartment of Arina’s car and Jack didn’t carry one.

Once in the dinning room, Abe went left and Jack flanked right. It was growing late. The air was cool and the shadows already erased by the approach of darkness. Jack’s route through the dinning room momentarily separated him from Abe. He knew they’d meet up again once he reached the other side of the room, but before he could get there he heard a scuffle break out.

Jack rushed to the aid of his friend, finding Abe with a choke hold around Yuri’s neck. Jack grabbed a nearby lamp, ripped off the cord then rushed in to secure Yuri’s hands. He had no sooner tightened the loop when from behind them another figure emerged from the kitchen. It was Egore with a club in his hand charging toward Jack.

Abe shoved the bound Yuri into the charging Egore, and as they collided Jack pounced on him and wrestled him to the ground. Abe secured his hands.

“Who are these guys,” Abe asked, again with a sharp edge to his voice.

“Neighbors! They’ve been keeping an eye on the place and us too. I think we’ve drawing some unwanted attention.”

“You think so?” Abe was showing the signs of tension.

“Yeah, maybe you ought to move Arina’s car around back to lower our profile. I’ll finish securing these two and call in for backup.”

“That’ll work,” Abe replied already half way out the door. He drove Arina’s car around back and secured his weapon from the glove compartment. As he started back to the house he saw a pair of headlamps coming up the drive. “Damn,” he cursed realizing he was caught in the open, his partner trapped inside. He found cover and waited for the car to come to a stop, then moved into position to come in from behind as the occupant entered.

Jack has seen the car coming too. Quickly he finished securing Yuri and Egore using a pair of socks to gag them both. Finishing with just time enough to take up position behind the door before it began to open.

The evening sky was now dark, the room darker, with scarcely enough available light to make out the lone figure who had entered, a cool wind blowing in from behind. The lone dark figure closed the door and then reached to turn on the lights. Only Jack’s hand was there first. He flicked on the lights causing the figure wrapped in a cloak to recoil and crouch and thrust up a forearm as if to hide behind the curtaining effect of the wrap-a-round cloak.

“Halt! Police!” Jack shouted as Mihaela slowly began to rise. Her eyes were black and her face ghostly pale. Baring two yellowish fangs of a snarling attack dog, she rose up out of her crouch as if ready to leap up and fly across the room to take a bite out of their ass. Yuri and Egore cowered back in fright, Arina screamed and Jack stepped up into her field of view, smiled that “I-just-can’t-enough-of-this-shit” smile, and with a straight right lead smashed her right in the face.

Pow! The force of the blow sent her crashing into the wall then crumbling to the floor. Jack looked down at the spot where she had stood and saw two yellowish-white objects and a trace of blood on the floor.

“Huh!” he grunted as Abe rushed in with weapon drawn. Jack stooped down and picked them up to show to Abe. “Have a look.” He held them out.

"Caps!”

Abe knelt down beside him and closely examined the half-inch long porcelain canine spikes. “Yip! Sure are. So what’cha think?” Abe followed through playing out the part.

“About what?’ Jack replied.

“The dental work. Looks like shoddy work to me. Think you could recommend a new dentist?”

“Say,” Jack played with the thought. “Remember a few years back they caught that guy who worked in a meat plant who was killing them hookers?”

“Yeah, they called him The Butcher, am I right?

“Yeah, that’s the guy. Well, I heard he was now the dentist at Attica.”

“Spot on, my friend.” Abe chuckled. “After she wakes up I’ll pass on the tip.”

“So, ahm, tell me,” Abe followed. “I thought vampires weren’t supposed to bleed?”

“This one does, only she’s not the right one.”

“Oh?”

“Nope! this is Mihaela, am I right, Arina?”

“Yes, that is her,” Arina still stood half hidden, cowering behind a potted plant.

“So where's Dr. Vladirimescu?”

“Good question,” Jack replied. A moment later the telephone rang. Jack asked Arina to answer the call, which she did in Romanian to whoever was at the other end. Jack only picking up the occasional “da’s” and “nu’s (yes’s and no’s).”

“That was Vlady’s driver,” Arina said after hanging up the phone. “He said Vlady was on her way to the Flamingo and they were delayed on the expressway. He said Vlady would call back when she arrived.”

“Did he ask why you were here at the house?” Jack asked.

“Yes, I said I came to help Mihaela unpack.”

“You know,” Abe perked up, “from where’s she’s parked on the expressway, she’s still 40 minutes away from the club. Add another 30 minutes for possible delays and you’ve an hour to get there, Jack. You could use my car.”

“Call ahead and tell them I’m coming,” was all that need be said. A minute later, Jack was racing toward the George Washington Bridge. With the red light and siren clearing the way, he wasn’t about to let those vampires escape with one ounce of his friends blood.
 
 
Scene III: Cecil Makes his Move
 
 
Cecilia stood fronting the inspection hatch that centered the service entrance door. She took a moment to do a quick survey of all the things that could go wrong and, of course, her appearance. Both her sense of confidence and her appearance were primary tools in a woman’s arsenal. Whether dressed like a cleaning woman or a starlet preparing to walk onto a stage, presentation was the key. Something she had already learned during her short stint as a woman.

Cecil of the other hand felt a tremble in his hand. Likewise a flush, the result of his irregular, intermittent breathing and a wavering heart that grew fainter by the second. Those doubts that Cecilia could not afford, he now owned. He was feeling the strain reach overload, his anxiety no less taxing than the bills she now expected him to pay.

Nervously Cecil reached down to feel the outline of his gun strapped to his thigh while Cecilia smoothed the contour of her long golden locks. With all final adjustments made, she wet her lips, tested her smile then reached for the buzzer. It was a moment of truth. One she bravely looked unflinchingly in the eye. Or “eyes” in this case; those of the man on the other side of the door peering out at the picture on her ID. Juxtaposed beside that ID was her gleaming white smile and a pair of freshly moistened lips to match.

Cecil heard the dead bolt inside slide open with a screech. Not unlike the one he felt building up inside as Cecilia dutifully picked up her pail, grabbed hold of her mop and stepped inside without so much as a second glance from the man. Without looking back she followed the narrow hallway lugging the mop and pail until she encountered a second door with an “Exit Only” sign and a dead bolt lock that was unlatched. Pulling an ear to the door, she heard the muffed sounds of music and voices on the other side.

Again she stopped to take stock of herself. She took a deep breath, smoothed the contour of her long wavy hair and again, tested her smile. Then with the steely nerves of an aerialist walking a tight rope, she opened the door.

If what he had seen out in the front lounge was cold fish served on a platter of mediocrity, than this place was a connoisseur’s gastronomical delight. Only for gamblers, and not some cut-rate, dingy back room gaming joint neither. This was the high rollers shanghai junction with all the high heeled, g-string wearing bells and whistles shuffling the cards.

The layout was clear to him now. The grand old Fox Theater had been divided into two parts. The lobby had been turned into what was now the front lounge. The palatial auditorium remained as it always had been - the scene behind the scene. The place where the well-heeled showcased their innocence while toying with the sinful. Only it wasn’t the sin of watching risqué turn of the century theatrical productions that these folks were indulging. Oh no, this sin cost them five thousands a pop for membership and the chips started out at a hundred dollars each.

That was by design of course, to attract only the right kind of cliental. As in those with enough money and pull to know how to keep it quiet. After all, the first order of business in a place like this was to make sure the cops weren’t in the loop. In return, this particular “By Invitation Only” club offered the goods aplenty. Incentive enough to keep their collective mouths shut, with the money and pull to do it.

With its rows of gaming tables, marble colonnades and the sweeping tiered balconies above, it was a page torn from the script of Monte Carlo, down to the glitzy band that played the musical interlude in the backdrop. What’s more, the place was packed. Bumper to bumper they clogged the isles and honeycombed around the tables where the turn of a card or the roll of the dice could make you a fortune, or a beggar in the blink of an eye.

“Hey, show time is over," the voice of a very large man in one of those three piece silk suits cut thought her spell. "There's a clean up in section 6."

Cecilia acknowledged the call with a nod then hurried off in a direction, not knowing if it was even the right way to go. Along the way, she saw a cleaning closet with a “Maintenance” placard on the door.

“The perfect place to start,” she reasonably presumed, then ducked inside to rid herself of her smock and cap. She hid the clothes in a towel bin and stored her ID in her clutch for safe keeping. Then after freshening up in the mirror, she again tested her smile before opening the door to make her entrance.

Outside Cecilia was just another high roller. Free to mill about as she chose. Feeling as though she had accomplished the impossible, Cecilia smiled and Cecil began to relax and regain his composure. Wearing the “I-told-you-so” grin, Cecilia reached out and grabbed a glass of pink Champaign off the service tray of a passing Flamingo girl, then wheeled about carefree as if waltzing through a golden meadow on a warm spring day.

Cecil tried to warn her to stay away from the perimeter where he saw a majority of the security lurking, but Cecilia would have none of it. The world was now her oyster, and feeling no bounds she advanced toward a woman she saw standing in a shadowy alcove beneath a low hanging balcony. Exactly why she chose to do so, Cecil hadn’t a clue.

Perhaps it was because the obviously intoxicated woman with a gleeful smile looked so thoroughly harmless. Or perhaps it was because the woman was waving, signaling for her to come over as if she knew her.

“Francine,” she wondered? She certainly has all the makings. This is obviously the sort of place she’d bump into her as well. “It must be her, wanting to say hello.”

The woman standing beneath the mezzanine was a tall, thin, elegant creature, dressed in a silk body shaping red dress that wrapped as snuggly across her ankles as it did about her preponderant bust. She also wore a hat, with a large plume of feathers in back, and a red net veiling draped over her face. Her arms up to her elbow were encased in matching red silk gloves, and between two out stretched fingers, a cigarette holder as long and lean and hot as a fireplace stoker.

Cecil had no way of knowing whether it was Francine or not. Still the logic of Cecilia’s reasoning baffled him. If anything, Francine seemed the type who’d want to do him in rather than want to fraternize over a cocktail. So as Cecilia advanced through the crowd, Cecil had his hand to his side, his fingers nervously rolling close to where he had his weapon strapped to his thigh. Especially when Cecilia had drawn close enough to determine it wasn’t Francine at all.

Of course, at that point the logical thing to do would have been to ignore her and walk off in another direction. Not Cecilia though. Oh no, she was so full of herself the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. She felt her armor impervious. Her appearance was her shield, her confidence her spear.

Dahhhling!” she purred and swooned over Cecilia as if ready to have her for lunch. “Haven’t we met? At the theater perhaps?”

Cecilia, like Cecil, hadn’t a voice to answer. Only her hands and the shaking of her head to say “No, you must have the wrong person.” Which should have been enough under normal circumstances to deter any woman, whether expressing a desire to know her on a more personal basis or not. Not this woman however. Nope! Instead she leaned in close with a haunting smile and a breathy whisper, “Have you been inside this evening, dahhhling?” Signaling with her eyes the direction she meant.

Cecilia followed those eyes deeper into the recesses of the alcove where a number of Flamingo girls stood in the shadows as if waiting for someone or something. Though again, without a voice of her own she hadn’t the means to extricate herself from this impossible entanglement. If she spoke she was toast. She could only stand and smile and silently wait for the divine intervention she desperately needed.

“Oh, then may I recommend that pretty puss over there." She nodded in the direction of a young woman standing just to their right wearing the same pink feathered scanty halter as did the others. It was Tatiana, the girl he was looking for, and she matched her picture perfectly. Only the proverbial picture worth a thousand words could not describe the temptress standing beneath the faint pink light.

"Take it from me darling, ‘he’ is superb." She spoke, her voice quite resolute in tone and purposeful in the emphasis she had placed on the word “He!" It was as though she had fired off a weapon, the gun blast resounding between Cecil’s ears, the bullet ricocheting inside his head. "Oh yes, he’s the prettiest prancing pony to gallop center rink.”

“Come, I'll introduce you," she smiled, turned Cecilia around to face another woman who now stood close-in behind. With gray hair piled in a bun, the woman was dressed in a gray skirt with matching vest that looked rather regimented. She also looked very much in command with the phalanx of guards standing behind her.

“Look out,” the lady in red whispered, “this one bites!”

"Good work, Detra," the vamp in gray said while nodding in the direction of the security force already zeroing in on Cecilia and Cecil from all directions.

"It was nothing, Vlady, if not too easy." Then she held out that long cigarette holder, sucked in a long draw and blew a smoke ring in Cecilia’s face.

"Dumb Cop!" she hissed.

"Bring him, quickly," Vlady commanded, leading the way to a room located not far from where Cecil had originally entered. In her wake, two of her henchmen carried Cecil along, his heels dragging behind. A moment later he was tossed into a windowless room and forced to sit on a chair placed in the center. In the room with him - Tatiana, Vlady, her two handpicked thugs and a woman he didn’t recognize.

"You are police, no?" Vlady asked in a most casual state, smiling prettily as she paced back and forth.

"I'm told you have been following Tatiana, yes?” Again Cecil didn’t answer.

“I also know why,” she leaned in, her gaze intense. “Don't think yourself clever for finding your way in. I have arranged it! Olga," she snapped her fingers, to which the unknown woman stepped forward in reply.

“You know this woman, no? You should. Her name is Olga Randa, the lady whose identification you carry with you.” Cecil felt the trap snap shut. "We have been following you since you first contacted Olga. She told us of you plans.”

“Oh yes, I know, you think you were simply following Michael and Tatiana, and only by chance have stumbled into all this. It is a pity for you really, because as I’ve said, you’re being here is not by accident at all. I’ve arranged it, to solve a two-fold problem I have.”

“You see, Michael had nothing to do with Sonya jumping out of that window. She jumped at her own accord, but I knew you’d pursue him regardless, convinced of his guilt. I couldn’t have that. For one, it would have been a danger to me, and two, it would have been a danger to him should his identity be known. So I lured you in to stop you.”

"In a way," she chuckled, "I almost find myself grateful for your services."

"My services?"

“Oh yes, but I'll not bore you with the obvious. Let me just say what you've done in your own unwitting way is help seal away the many faces of Michael even further from the light. Michael, Michelle and Tatiana are all the same you see, and just as you do not know who I am, neither will the world know anything of ‘Mircea’ when it becomes his turn to bear the ring."

“Lady,” Cecil pleaded, “would it help if I told you I haven't the slightest idea about what you're talking about."

"Of course not!” she replied with some confidence. “Nobody knows that but me. Nevertheless, it was only a matter of time before you figured it all out.”

“Like I said, I had a two-fold problem. The need to keep both my business and Michael’s identity a secret, and to that end, you have served me well. Oh, and you needn't worry about your partner in the van. Soon the two of you will be planted side by side in a grave you shall dig with your own hands. Minus your heads of course,” She chuckled. “Those I will impale and put on display to scare away the crows.”

“Now, I think we should be done with this. Gregerio!" again she snaps her fingers. "Take him out the service door. Milich, you take two others and secure his partner. We’ll take them to Waterston where the others have gathered and wait.” Then she turned and hurriedly walked out of the room, taking Olga with her. “I will wait for you in the van.”

Murphy's Law Book II: Red Harvest Part II: Scenes IV-VI By Josie Jack Murphy once again delves into the murky underworld to find a missing girl. Armed with only his dry-wit and cynicism, he journeys to a quiet little farm town called Waterston. It’s a beautiful place, renown for its cherries and the orchards that dotted the landscape against the rolling green hills beyond. But it’s also a world where the hunter becomes the hunted and where the forces of good collide with the evil cloaked in the myth and mysticism of an ancient belief. It’s also a place where some find the "Red Harvest sinfully wild to enjoy, while others find nothing more than disappointment and regret . . ."

 
 
Scene IV: Broken Arrow
 
 
Jack drove slowly past the Flamingo. Other than a small crowd milling about outside everything looked quiet and normal. As did the van that was parked a half block further on. No sign as yet of a response from the department, though from the stillness he could sense preparations were already underway. He parked nearby and got out to make contact with Arn. Confident that whatever operation the department was planning would be coordinated though the point Arn had already established.

He found Arn hunkered down in back of the van with Harrington. He’d been sent to coordinate the operation and told Jack a perimeter was now being established. In 15 minutes the assault group would be ready to make their move. Harrington showed him an outline of what was being planned on a map spread out on the table.

The red arrows indicated the main thrust would be going through the front entrance. That fit normal operational procedures, though Arn disagreed with the plan. He saw it as a more circuitous route, where the bulk of the security was focused. Though it was clean no one was listening even though he knew the layout better than anyone else. Again, that too fit normal operational procedures of a top down command with their collective heads in the air rather than on the ground.

“Personally I think Arn is on to something here,” Jack interrupted Harrington’s summation. “Speed is the key here, and if you’re tied up trying to work your way through the front, you’ve already relinquished the advantage.”

“No,” Harrington followed. “It’d be all that and more just to bust through that side door.”

“Perhaps,” Jack followed, obviously having something else in mind. “Well, one thing is certain. We’re not doing much good here. I’m going out to take up a position. When the whistle blows, I want to be first though that side entrance door.”

“Yeah, okay,” was all Harrington could say. He knew what Jack was feeling. If he had a partner trapped inside, he would likely do the same. In this line of work this is where the rubber hit the road, and like Jack, he’d want to be first in the line of fire as well.

Jack stepped outside and Arn followed. “Where do you think you’re going, Arn?” Jack asked.

“I’m following you in.”

“No, it’s my responsibility, not yours. Besides, we’ve got to move quickly.”

“Jack, please! I’m the one who put the bug in his ear. He wouldn’t be in there if not for me.”

“It’s too dangerous, Arn, sorry!”

“Dangerous? Jack you’ve met my wife. I’m set to retire in a week and what then? Look, after 26 years, please don’t deny me this.”

Jack hadn’t a need to read between the lines, nor time to worry about what might become of the man if he were to say no. “Okay, take up a position in front. Only stay out of sight until help arrives.”

“Yeah Jack, thanks.”

“Oh, and Arn, no heroics,” he said as he loaded his 45 then set off to position himself exactly where he wanted to be; At the top of the stairs, standing alongside that rear entrance door with his revolver in hand.

When he arrived he opened up the rear of the cleaning van and quickly latched onto a bucket before rushing 3 steps at a time up the stairs. His plan was to wait out of sight beside the door. Then just as the assault was about to begin, he’d toss the bucket down the steps hoping the ruckus would draw out the guard. If it worked, he’d have the guard secured and the advantage of speed on his side.

In sum, his plan was to move swiftly and with cunning, and it might have worked if the door hadn’t unexpectedly opened up. The guard had opened the door just a sliver to flick a cigarette butt down the steps. It wasn’t much of an opportunity. Plus with 10 minutes yet to go before the division moved in, the timing was piss poor. Still, you’ve got to take what you’re given. So with the speed of a trap springing shut, he pressed his revolver to his temple.

“Your next word will be your last,” was all Jack had to say. A moment later he had him cuffed. He then led him down the steps and stuffed him into the back of the van. With the side entrance door now open and the guard out of the way, he liked his chances of pulling it off. Only that’s where his luck ran out. As he exited the van and started to close the rear door, someone inside the cab started it up, threw it into reverse and stepped on the gas.

It’d happened so fast and so unexpectedly he scarcely had time to turn about and jump out of the way. Only jumping out of the way of a rapidly accelerating vehicle bearing down on you is a lot easier to say than do. Something Jack soon found out. As the rear wheels screeched he jumped, fell to the ground and rolled to get out of the way. He’d all but escaped from under the van, but his right leg had not. The left rear tire had caught him, shattering his leg in the process. Through the agony and the pain, he looked down at the blood that swirled around that anomalous protrusion. Even worse, he’d lost his gun.

Now broken, like his plan, it was clear neither were going anywhere . . .
 
 
Scene V: Out of the Corner of an Eye
 
 
With Vlady now gone, Gregorio pulled Cecil up off the chair and started to haul him out the door. Only Cecil was not quite so ready to go. In seems in the process of leaving under his own power, he faked a stumble and stepped out of his shoe.

"I can't walk with just one heel," Cecil pleaded his case, waiting for Gregorio to take the bait and reach for that fallen shoe. Which he did, giving Cecil the first, and probably his last opportunity to reach down for that single shot derringer.

Then with a move so quick he could scarcely believe it himself, he had his hand wrapped around that gun.

"Hold it right there," he waved it between the two men. Hurriedly he slipped his shoe back on and then cautiously worked his way over toward Michael. He wrapped a forearm around his neck and pressed the gun to his ribs, taking that classic hostage pose.

“Okay fellas, you know the routine.” He shouted, then added, “Down on the floor!" which might have sounded a bit corny, almost laughably cliché. Only laughing at his use of that well-turned phrase was the last thing on his mind as he slowly and cautiously backed out of that room latched on to Michael, his one and only lifeline.

“Remember,” he shouted his parting words, “If you follow, I’ve nothing to lose.”

Amazingly that divine intervention he had been praying for answered the call. What else could explain how he and Michael managed to maneuver out in the open unnoticed? The distance was less than twenty feet to that rear exit door, but in a room filled with security it might as well have been a thousand. Yet somehow he made it. Only that’s where his luck ran out. He had been spotted by a guard already charging toward him with a full head of steam.

“Halt! Police!” Cecil yelled taking his gun off Michael, giving him the chance to slip out of his grasp and run through that rear exit door to escape the building.

Cecil didn’t have a chance to follow, nor time to think about whether he was prepared to use that one bullet if given the opportunity. The man was on him too quickly, tackling him and knocking the gun out of his hand. Leaving him to fight a battle he could not win, and worse, any moment others birds of prey would be swooping in to feast on the harvest.

It didn’t look good. He was out muscled, out of time and out of bullets — save one. A shoe; as in stiletto, long, sharp and deadly - which by chance had fallen off during the course of the scuffle and landed next to his hand. All he needn’t was one clear shot. An opportunity he soon got, his aim fair and true, hitting him square in the eye with that steel pointed heel. The man rolled off clutching his eye in pain giving Cecil the moment he needed to jump up, run through the door and latch the dead bolt lock just as four others arrived.

With one more door to go he ran toward the rear entrance door . . .
 
 
Meanwhile, outside the club . . .
 
 
Jack lie sprawled out, his leg shattered. Now, all but a motionless target he looked up and saw a woman step out of the van. It was the same woman he had seen in that picture with Michelle. It was Vlady, wrapped in a long black cloak, clutching a broomstick she banished like a make-shift spear. Then standing over him she peered down through the shadowy hollows of her raven-like eyes.

“You too are police, yes? I didn’t know of you. No matter. It’s too late for him and too late for you.”

She raised that make-shift spear and was about to act on her words when Tatiana came running out the door. She stopped, looked up and smiled. “Mircea! Veni” (come)!

“Yes mistress,” Tatiana replied.

Jack looked up and saw Tatiana advance down toward him. Only it wasn’t just her. She was a multiple of one, and with each advancing step Jack could see pieces of them all. The Michelle he’d seen in that photo, the Michael he had met in that Sanger Street apartment, and the Tatiana he’d seen at the Korean cleaners.

Plus another he had not met as yet. His eyes were dark, his face ghostly pale. It was the face of an ethereal presence that lived in the twilight. That place between the real and none, the good and the evil. Where there exists no more conscious thought than that possessed by a Great White moving in for the kill. It was as tangible as those ravenous eyes, and as real as the hiss and the snarl. Mircea’s face! The new Michael trying to break out, with each step forward growing increasingly stronger, though as yet, did not rule.

Now standing beside Vlady, she handed Tatiana the make-shift spear. Then she rose up and stretched out her arms wing-like, as if to take flight. There she stood peering down, the black cloak draped down from her wing-swept arms, the lust of a raven in her cold black eyes.

“Mihai! Ridică-te!” (Rise up) she hissed.

“Michael!” Jack reached out and Michael lowered his eyes.

“Michelle! Soma tău forţă!” (summon thy strength) she baited.

“Michelle!” Jack whispered while Michelle stood there and grieved.

“Tatiana! Soma tău putere!” (summon thy power) she scowled.

“Tatiana!” Jack implored. Tatiana’s tears rained, filled with disappointment and regret.

Then to the face who would consume them all she commanded . . .

“Mircea! Este a ta de a devora!” (It’s yours to devour) she compelled.

“Mircea!” Jack echoed and Mircea still stood motionless.

Though he knew it was only a matter of time. Vlady’s presence was to strong and Mircea’s heart was already too cold, too dark and too distant to change that.

“Michael!” He again reached out like a forgiving man, broken, but not fallen. A man at peace with himself, lying maimed and defenseless, yet victorious in his defeat as Vlady compelled him to swoop down and feast on the bounty of the Red Harvest.

Only he saw something else too, out of the corner of his eye . . .
 

Without thinking, he hopped atop the handrail and then without concern as to whether such a head first leap like that was even survivable, he executed the perfect Swan dive to save his friend . . .

“Jaaaaa-ck!” came a frantic cry, sounding not unlike the caw of a ravenous crow swooping down from the dark sky above. As Vlady loomed like a vulture preparing to feast upon his carcass, so too did that swooping black blur race down toward Vlady. Traversing the distance like a falling star, landing square on her back where she imploded upon impact with the ground.

Jack looked over at the sprawling heap. It had been a calamitous event. Especially for that Vlachian vulture who had been standing in the middle of the road and failed to look up to see the oncoming truck. It didn’t look good for the fallen star who’d ridden her down either. Obviously a fall like that was bound to have had some deleterious effects, whether cushioned from the full impact or not. Still, with no immediate signs of movement, he feared even worse.

Though slowly, miraculously, one small twitch at a time that picture began to change. Until finally that fallen star did rise up her head, albeit with a bloody mouth and grinning a grin absent a tooth.

“I got her, Jack!” the words came out slurred and as disjointed as his jaw appeared to be.

“Cecil!” Jack voiced his disbelief, his head in a swoon. “Is that you?”

“At your service, sir,” Cecil sounded rather punch drunk, and with his eyes rolling around inside his head, not entirely in control of his wits.

“At your service?” Jack repeated to himself. “It’s a wonder he’d even managed to survive the fall. Courageous,” for sure, he lauded the heroics, but even faint as he was, he wasn’t going to let Cecil know that.

Instead he quipped with a groan riddled with pain, “Well, damn it all son. You were too quick on the trigger. I had him right where I wanted him.”

“Sorry boss,” Cecil cocked his pretty blond head and slurred. “You want me to go back up and try again?” He grimaced, sucked in some blood then offered up another toothless smile.

The pain that shot through Jack might have been worth the laugh had he not spotted the four thugs who had been in pursuit of Cecil now standing at the top of the steps. They were already racing down toward them when the meter ran out on those 15 minutes Harrington was waiting to start the assault.

Lamps lit up the sky and in rushed the 3^rd precinct armed to the teeth, swarming in like ants on the march over a decaying carcass. Jack shifted his focus back toward Michael, err, Tatiana, err, Michelle who was now kneeling down beside him.

“Hey over here,” Michael signaled toward one of the advancing officers, “Get some medical help over here quick.”

Jack looked up and smiled at the boy dressed as a flamingo girl. The shadowy hollows of his eyes didn’t appear so dark anymore. Nor did he look so ghostly pale. Hardly the harbinger of death, though Jack had always known that.

“Are you alright?’ Michael asked.

“Yes,” he wanted to say, but couldn’t say. He suddenly felt overtaken by faintness and his rapidly tunneling senses made putting words to his conscious thought no longer possible. The best he could do was look up and watch as one medic now on the scene supplied him with oxygen and medication. While a pair of others wrapped a splint around his shattered leg before hoisting him onto the stretcher. Beside him another team worked on Cecil and what was left of Vlady. Then when ready, they were taken to the waiting ambulance.

Only the much needed infusion of oxygen had managed to clear Jack’s head. It also infused new life into his weakened state. Leastwise enough to reach up and tear the inhalator off his face.

“I don’t need this, boy!” he grumbled and scowled at the medic walking at his side.

“Yes you do, sir,” he sought to replace it, but before he could wrangle it free from Jack’s grasp, out came, “Hey, you ain’t by chance Romanian, are you son?” He eyeballed him with a steely-eye glare.

“No, sir, I’m pure blooded Italian.”

“Open up son and smile for me,” which the medic did, while Jack, overwrought with suspicion thoroughly scrutinized his two eye teeth.

“Huh!” he grunted, “No caps!”

“How’s that, sir?’

“No caps! I guess I got them all.”
 
 
Scene VI: An Ocean of White Blossoms
 
 
St. Marks Hospital, 6 a.m . . .

Jack hobbled out his room and down the hall toward Cecil’s. It wasn’t his first time on crutches, but no matter how your cut it, that step-swing-step glide is slow going with a cast running thigh high weighing you down. Still, if you think he was looking for sympathy, think again. He was armed to the teeth with his dry wit and cynicism as he walked in and saw Abe, Arina, Michael and Carl Rutherford beside Cecil’s bedside.

“About time you showed up,” Jack curtly blurted out. “I thought you knew how to read a map.” He rattled off, and continued on with that step-swing-step glide.

“I do.” Abe seemed pleased that the medications hadn’t dulled his friend’s wit. “We’ve been here. We’ve followed you ever step of the way.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Jack shook his hand.

“Good to see you on your feet.” Abe followed. “So how did you manage to escape from under Nurse Cruella’s all-knowing eye?”

“Evil nurse Thorndike? Easy,” Jack opened up his hand to show Abe the sleeping pills she had given him. “Once I found the combination.”

Abe laughed, “On the bottom of the top desk drawer?”

“Yup, right out of the text book.” Jack massaged the tortured line of thought.

He then turned toward Cecil, wrapped up in bandages lying upon the bed. With a step-swing-step he inched in a bit closer then delivered that time-honored punch to the forearm. Jack’s way of telling a man he was someone he wholly respected. “Abe, meet Cecil Benover, one heck of a cop. Cecil, meet Abe.”

“We’ve met,” Abe answer for him. Mainly because Cecil had his mouth wired to support the fractured jaw he had sustained in the fall, along with a concussion and a fractured rib and some teeth. Needless to say, he wasn’t quite himself, though the doctors did manage to dissolve that glue. His scalp looked red and peeled and his face looked none too pretty, but at least the swelling had gone down enough to see the old Cecil under there, somewhere.

“He looks great in a dress too,” Jacked smiled. “You make me proud, kid.”

Jack at last turned to Michael. He smiled at Arina who was holding his hand sitting at the foot of Cecil’s bed.

“How’s Michael doing?” he asked and then, “Ah, I mean . . .” he sought to correct himself after realizing his mistake. Only he was beaten to it.

“Michelle!” Michelle called out her own name.

“Yes, Michelle is doing well,” Arina returned his smile.

Jack wanted to kick himself for having made the mistake. Besides the obvious fact that she looked like the girl next door, she had also made a conscious effort to present herself as one. In fact she looked ever bit that vision he had seen bouncing down the steps of Lindquist Hall a few days before.

Her golden blonde ponytail was arched high, like a prancing young filly on promenade. It was a wig of course, but the fullest of her pink and white gingham dress looked just the same. As did the eagerness he saw painted on her parted, red stained lips. Then there was that whiff of teen spirit filled with the optimistic spirit of youth.

That was the young woman he saw wrapped around Arina’s affections. The boy, the girl who’d tasted that lush red fruit, so seductive in its allure, so sinfully wild to enjoy. Yet despite everything Vlady had taken from her, the one thing she could not take was her will to resist lusting after still more. A temptation she had resisted, and in the process, she saved herself and Jack as well.

Of course all that was behind her now, as was Vlady. The power of her persona, her chemistry and her evil machinations that once held such sway were now gone, dead and buried along with her history. It had evaporated into thin air like the dark apparition that once was, but in truth, was never really there. Only the stench of her evil and the consequences of her hate remained; though no longer in Michelle.

Once ghostly pale, her eyes so dark, she was now vibrant, alive, with a “joie de vivre” as luminous as the rose in her cheeks. Yes, true, it was in a form Vlady had created, but clearly this was not a face of her making. This was a new face, born from the essence that was now free to run through her veins once Vlady’s deadly venom had been flushed out. A face of her own choosing that was now free to flourish, and with Arina’s help, to become one with herself again.

“I’ve got something to show you, Jack” Carl’s voice cut through his thoughts. With Vlady’s ring in hand, he handed it to Jack.

“How’d you get this?”

“Abe grabbed it, States evidence.”

“You saw her?” Jack asked.

“Yes, she looked very mortal and very undone.”

“Did Arina see her?”

“Yes, she was with me and Abe. She got a good look.”

“She spat too!” Abe chuckled, looked down and pointed to his shoe. “Just like my mama used to say, ‘I spit on your bones’.”

“Good, I’m glad. She needed to see more than anyone. Right, Arina?” He turned to ask.

“Yes,” she spoke as if finally free of the burden she carried. “She was mortal. She had always been mortal. She was an evil, a pestilence. Now she is just one less for the world to suffer.”

“Good, now you need to get that message out.”

“This might help,” Carl cut in. “Look at it!” He pointed to the ring. “Look what’s inscribed inside the band.”

Jack did, bringing it up close and examining it with one eye. “It says, made in West Germany.”

“Yes, it’s a fake! It couldn’t be anymore than 10 years old.”

"A fake!” Jack shook his head, not wanting to believe a man of his stature could possibly entertain the notion it wasn’t. “Of course it’s a fake. It was all a con game, professor. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I read the Marquee before I paid me 10 cent admission.” He recited what Jack had once told him. “However, I’m the type of guy who needs to see it for himself. If the guy behind the mask isn’t revealing himself, I need to sift through the clues until the irrefutable evidence reveals itself.”

“Besides,” he went on, “it isn’t important that I know. It's important that they know," Carl looked over at Arina and Michelle.

“Spot on, professor,” Jack followed, then reached over and placed the ring in Arina’s hand. “See, there are no hexes, no voodoo, no vampires looming in the night.”

“It's yours, Arina.” Jack followed. “Keep it as a memento, or do what is right and show the others that they are now free, no longer bound to the past." Then he turned toward Michelle. “No one can give back to you the years you've lost. I know the wounds are deep and time alone cannot bring them to heal. But love can.”

“Arina,” Jack took up her hand. “Michelle isn’t the one. At least not the one Vlady tried to convince you she was. She is however your one and only chance to bring an end to your suffering. Take care of her Arina. She's more precious than all the rings in the world."

With that she cried, and Michelle, the victim of so much hate and deceit, reached out to hold her. No longer was her heart too dark, too distant or too cold. Vlady’s spell broken, she was again whole, a single embodiment of a beautiful young girl, with a voice as poignant as her smile.

“Mama!” Michelle uttered, and “Mama,” Jack’s voice echoed.

“A private moment?” Abe asked after a long silent pause.

“You think?” Jack replied, then asked, “So, where’s Arn?”

“Upstairs, room 1430.”

“He didn’t . . .?”

“Oh no, he did exactly as you said. They found him holding the guys in the lounge at bay. Only the one he didn’t see got the jump on him. He smashed Arn in the head with a bottle before Arn managed to regain the upper hand.”

“Tough Irishmen. Now I know how he managed to survive 31 years with that wife of his. Is he hurt bad?” Jack wanted to know.

“A nasty gash, but I understand he has a pretty thick skull.”

“Yeah, you got that right. You been up to visit him yet?”

“Not this morning. I was just fixing to go up when you came in.”

“So what’s keeping you?”

“You,” Abe laughed. “You’re slowing me down, old man.”

“Look who’s calling who old.” Jack replied, already step-swing-stepping on one leg on his way out the door. “You’re the one legging it out in that cushy job raking up them cherry blossoms.”

“You mean up there in Waterston, where the ocean of white blossoms dot the landscape against the rolling green hills beyond?” Abe echoed what Jack had once said to him.

“Nicely put, Abe,” another step-swing-step further along.”

“Your words,” Abe added.

Yes, those were his words, a memory from his boyhood. More an utterance, really, that Abe had remembered him saying on their drive along River Road. Something quite personal that when spoken, brought to mind the vision of his mother sitting on the blanket amidst the snow-like pedals that covered the ground.

That vision and all that had transpired in the last few days weighted on him deeply.

“Yes,” he wanted to say, but couldn’t say as the tidal wave of memories swept over him. Like his step-swing-step, his thoughts swayed between the joyousness in Michelle and Arina’s embrace, to the regret for having lost touch with the beauty of that moment beneath the cherry trees so long ago.

“I admit, it is beautiful,” Abe kept pace with that step-swing-step glide.

Maybe it was that he really did need that medication. Or maybe it was that he could no longer keep his emotions in check. Whatever the reason, as he replayed those once lost memories, the beauty in his mother’s voice eclipsed even that of his friend’s. “Yes,” she had said, “the blossoms are beautiful . . .”

And “Yes,” Jack finally managed to utter. “. . . and later will come the harvest of the lush sweet fruit, sinfully wild to enjoy.”

“You gotta be careful though,” Abe followed in reply. “Eat too much and you’ll be bellyaching like them crows.”

“There’s the hitch, Abe.” Jack choked through watery eyes. “In every little sin there’s always some disappointment and regret.”

“So I’ve been told, my friend, so I’ve been told!”

Step-swing-step!

. . . Jack hobbled across the parade field on his crutches, just as obstinate as ever and still clinging to his pig-headed notion of self-sufficiency. . .

End of Part II