Thursday, September 28, 2017

Gregor Ivanov Pepinsky

This week, let’s get back to storytelling. That’s what I like most. And for this one, we’ll reach into recent headlines and spin a tale that seems appropriate to the times. Enjoy.

*****
GREGOR IVANOV PEPINSKY
            “Gregor Ivanov Pepinsky?” the heavy voice demanded.
I adjusted the iPhone against my ear more comfortably. “Sorry, you have the wrong number. No Pepinskys here.”
“This is 4508 Nome Street NE in Albuquerque, is it not?”
“That’s my address. But I repeat... there are no Pepinskys here.”
“May I ask what you call yourself?”
I hesitated. Phone scams were so widespread these days, one had to be careful. But this approach was sufficiently different to fire my curiosity. I decided to answer. “My name is Gregg Peppin.”
“No. You are Gregor Ivanov Pepinsky. You are the son of Ivan and Magda Pepinsky. Born on August 28 of 2077.
That hauled me up short. My father’s name had been Ivan, and my mother was Margaret, commonly called Maggie. The guy nailed my birthdate cold. And the difference between Peppin and Pepinsky could be explained by Anglicizing a foreign name. Something else drudged up from my memory banks gave me a jolt, as well. When I was little, my parents often spoke Russian in private. I’d picked it up back then and still retained a smidgen. I tried out a little of it. “Da.
Mistake. The voice rattled on in unintelligible Russian.
“Hold on. That was all the Russian I know. If you’ve got something say, say it in English.”
“Listen very carefully, Mr. Pepinsky. Go to the fireplace in your living room and check the fourth brick on the second row to the left side. You will find that it is removable. Inside the cavity, there will be a key. Do it now.”
The officious tone in the man’s voice nettled me. “This has gone on long enough. I’m terminating this call. With that, I hit the disconnect button and pulled up my most recent calls. The last one came from a meaningless string of numbers like telemarketers use to confuse the origination point of their calls.
After that, of course, I did precisely what the mysterious voice wanted me to do. I walked straight to the fireplace and started fiddling with bricks on the left side. After a few bungling attempts, one brick moved. With some difficulty, I managed to pull it free. The small flashlight on my keyring revealed something flat and metallic lying in a slight depression. It was a key. But a key to what? I turned the thing over in my hand but found nothing that gave me a clue.
The phone rang again, tipping me off that I had been manipulated. “Listen, Mr. Whoever You Are. Get off my phone and leave me alone.”
“You are not curious about the key?”
“Who says I found a key?”
“Come now, Mr. Pepinsky, let’s stop playing games. The key is to a safety deposit box. He gave me the number, 288, and the name of the bank. “Death certificates were provided the institution for your parents and the proper paperwork naming you as the new owner were filed in a timely manner. You are free to open your box.”
“That would have required my signature on an agreement.”
“Rest assured that your signature will match the one on the current agreement. I suggest you check the contents. This is a Saturday, and the branch where the box is located is only open until 2:00 p.m.”
“I have other plans.” I closed the call and stood at the front window of my home and stared outside, neither really seeing the light monsoonal rain falling nor clearly focusing on the mysterious calls. I felt… numb.


Of course, it was beyond my powers of endurance to resist a trip to the bank… which happened to be where my own account was deposited. Coincidence? My parents had opened the account for me when I was a young teen. I’d remained with the bank ever since. Those people—whoever they were—were likely aware of that fact, given that they knew a great deal about me.
When I opened the box in the privacy of the viewing room at the bank, my breath caught in my throat. What first drew the eye were envelopes stuffed with money. There were an even dozen of them holding what I estimated to be around $120,000. Roughly equal to what I’d managed to put away after fifteen years working for the New Mexico Secretary of State’s office.
The items in the bottom of the box were even more astounding than the hoard of money. I found what appeared to be birth certificates for my parents… in the names of Ivan Pepinsky and Magda Popov. If that weren’t astounding enough, I found what I would swear were code books and official looking documents bearing the seal of the old USSR. Finally, I found two passport-sized documents that seemed to identify them as members of the KGB. I had been a late-term child, so my parents would have been young adults before the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991. Had they been infiltrated as spies?
My dad had worked at Sandia National Labs, but so far as I knew, he was an accountant, not a scientist, and worked in an unclassified area. My mom had been a housewife, although she was active in various local groups. We’d lived comfortable but not extravagant lives. I shook my head and fingered the envelopes. The extravagance lay here. Waiting for me? Would they have told me at some point? I’ll never know. A car wreck while driving home from church killed them both while I was away at college.
I spent the afternoon vacillating between the desire to burn everything, including the money, and scheming to put it to use somehow. One moment, I raged in anger at my quiet, unassuming parents and the next, I vainly searched my memory for signs of treason. The two people I loved most of all on Earth did not have a political bone in their bodies.
By the time the phone rang that evening, I had convinced myself they were two young people in love who took advantage of an opportunity to get out from under the tyranny of the Soviet system, even if they had to pretend to be agents. And all the while, they hid their illicit gains, saving it for their only child… me.
But the people running Russia today were old KGB functionaries, and they likely had access to millions of files. One of which involved the Pepinskys.


I answered the phone on the fourth ring, just before it went to voicemail.
“I assume you found the contents of the box to be of interest.”
“What do you want? I’m not my father. I don’t work at the lab.”
“True. But you do work for the Secretary of State. You have been a valued employee of what is it? Fifteen years now.”
“Why is that any business of yours?”
The voice grew harsh. “You will continue the work your parents, both heroes of the Fatherland, began fifty years ago.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. My father was an accountant at the lab, that’s all.”
“Have you no idea what the budget of a project can reveal about that project? Your father served his homeland, and so shall you.”
I choked back the denial that Russia had anything to do with me. This guy would go after what he wanted regardless of what I said. “And how will I do that?”
“Simple,” he said. “The Secretary of State oversees elections in New Mexico. There is an important election coming up soon. And this is what I want you to do.
I listened in silence as he detailed the information he wanted immediately, voter rolls and voter information mostly. Then he told me I would receive further instructions shortly prior to the election, itself. It went without saying that if I refused to cooperate, my parents’ past would be exposed.


I dreaded the dawn on Monday morning. I was awake to see it. I’d slept little that night, torn over what to do. Once, I stood before our fireplace, match in hand, to start a fire that would burn away the incriminating documents, the money included. But I reasoned that the voice on the phone had ample evidence of his own, so that would accomplish nothing.
Unlike many people who live in Albuquerque and work in Santa Fe, I did not catch the Roadrunner train between here and the capital city. I drove my own car, a ten-year-old blue BMW. I made the trip on remote, not really seeing the road, but being aware enough to turn where I needed to and to avoid banging into other cars.
Eventually, I reached the North Capital Annex at 325 Don Gaspar and got out of the car on legs that seemed leaden. Nonetheless, I entered the building and made my way to Suite 300. Then rather than turn right to my office, I made a left and paused a long moment before pushing through the door to the Ethics Division and walking straight into the office of Herman Dominguez, a guy who joined the department about the same time I did.
He glanced at me over a cup of coffee. “Hi, Gregg. What’s up?”
“I’m here to dump a problem on you,” I said.
“What problem?”
“Me.”
With that, I upended my attaché case, spilling the contents of the deposit box, including the envelopes of money, onto his desk.

*****
How badly was our last election compromised? Perhaps someday we’ll know the extent, but for now, we’ll just have to know that a very determined and sophisticated effort was made to influence the outcome.

After the recent release of THE CITY OF ROCKS, I decided to take a greater interest in promoting my books. In pursuit of that, I’d like to build a database of email addresses of my readers. Nothing nefarious, just to let readers know when something significant happens, such as the release of the next novel, THE LOVELY PINES. If you choose to provide your address to dontravis21@gmail.com, I will do nothing more with it than to send you occasional timely messages.

The following information provides contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com
Blog: dontravis.com
Facebook: Don Travis
Twitter: @dontravis3


As always, thanks for being a reader.

Don

New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.













Thursday, September 21, 2017

Two Benadryls and a Baby Aspirin

 
Courtesy of Pixabay
 Apologies for being late posting this. Getting forgetful. Forgot to push "Publish."

Regular readers know that I went to visit my family in Texarkana, Texas over the Labor Day holiday, the first time I’ve been back for several years. My son Grant decided to go with me and meet some relatives he had never seen before. As we both have bad backs, we made a solemn pact not to push ourselves on the drive and to stop each afternoon to rest overnight so we wouldn’t arrive “all stove up.”

We left on a Tuesday morning around nine-thirty and started driving east on I-40. Our first over night was planned for Amarillo, but Grant noted that there was a lot of daylight still remaining when we arrived in that city, so we pushed on to Childress another hundred miles down the road. The long and the short of it is, we arrived after two days of driving instead of three.

As I am the eldest of my three siblings by eight years or more, they all welcomed me with the respect age is due… ignoring some of the nasty things we did to one another when we were growing up… and greeted Grant with open arms. In short, the visit went quite well.

My sister and her husband and the younger of my twin brothers and his wife took turns taking both Grant and me plus my elder son Clai, who lives in Texarkana, for evening meals. The older twin, who is ill, and his wife hosted us for lunches. They live on a home and something like eight acres at the edge of a forest just south of Texarkana. His wife is a beautiful woman and a marvelous cook, so this arrangement suited us just fine.

The first day, they introduced us to their dog Lady, a two-year-old golden retriever. She was friendly and feisty and apparently approved of us. The next day, however, when we arrived, my brother told us she had been bitten by a copperhead about an hour after we left. The older of their two sons and his wife are both veterinarians, so the dog received prompt treatment and was pretty well recovered by the time we arrived for lunch the next day. When I asked what the treatment was, the answer came back, “Two Benadryls and a baby aspirin.”

A bit disbelieving, I asked what the treatment would have been had the bite victim been a man. 

“Probably two Benadryls and a baby aspirin.”
*****
Who knew? Apparently a rattlesnake bite requires an anti-venom, but a copperhead bite does not. (Please don't take this as a medical fact. If you are bitten seek treatment from a doctor.) Don’t think anyone particularly enjoyed this true tale, but I hope you learned something from it.

The following information provides contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com
Blog: dontravis.com
Facebook: Don Travis
Twitter: @dontravis3


As always, thank for being a reader.

Don


New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Thursday, September 14, 2017

Sam and Sheila

Well, I returned from my trip home to see my older son, my brothers and sister and all the assorted in-laws, nephews, nieces, cousins, and the like. The result? I’m convinced I have pretty good kinfolk. I’m likely the only member dragging down the family reputation.

I hope you enjoyed Mark’s story about Hawk and Grove last week. Got a pretty good number of views, so someone must have cottoned to it. (I've been in Texas, recently, you know)

This week hits a more somber tone. Some will wonder why I wrote it, but such situations do arise, and each individual meets them in his or her own way. Anyway, let’s learn about Sam and Sheila.

*****
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
SAM AND SHEILA


          “Sheila, you know I love you, don’t you?”
          “Yes, I know you do, Sam,” came the tremulous reply.
          I’d said that to her every day for over fifty years, but this time it held a special significance. I positioned the pistol, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger.
          I couldn’t bear to look at her poor, broken body, but neither could I resist giving her a long, tight hug. My salty tears disturbed the slight film of powder on her soft, lined cheek. Lifting my head, I gazed upon her delicate features, serene now that the thing growing inside her lungs no longer tortured her. The delicate blush of lipstick on her lips and a touch of mascara on her lids—now closed forever tore a sob from me.
          Cruel reality struck like a tornado, drawing breath from me and sending my mind whirling. The thought, the idea…the plan had seemed benevolent—heroic even—but the act rendered everything into bone and gristle and blood. How could such a frail little body hold so much blood? The gun, a Luger brought back from the war, fell from my nerveless fingers, and I scrambled out of that death bed on legs that would hardly hold me. I made it to the bathroom, fell on my knees and retched into the stool. I vomited until there was nothing left in my stomach and then threw up again. My nausea was no longer of the physical. It was now more of the spiritual. And there was a lifetime of ugliness to expunge there. But eventually, even that was drained, and I labored to my feet and stood on shaky legs.
          A wild-eyed old man stared back at me from the vanity mirror, his hazel eyes sunk in puffy pouches. Once taut flesh sagged like his face was disintegrating. I watched him gasp for breath, but the air no longer held enough oxygen. Inhaling brought only desperation and sadness and terrible, crushing loneliness. What was wrong with him… me. Sheila would know….
I gagged on the thought. Sheila had always known how to take care of me, even when I didn’t. In her gentle way, she nagged and coaxed until I gave in to her wishes only to find her judgment had been correct. She had tended my body, my mind, and my spirit for all these years without seeming to give a minute’s thought to what a mulish clod I could be.
          Until last year, that is. We didn’t know what the problem was for a long time, but she lost her energy and suffered aches and pains so severe they brought complaints from a strong but gentle woman who never complained. The doctors fussed and prodded and MRId this and scanned that until we used up our medical benefits for the year. Then our savings went, and a mortgage on the house became necessary.
          Eventually, the medics wanted to put her in hospice, but that was like giving up, wasn’t it? I saw that the idea frightened her, and not much frightened my mate of half a century. So I declined. Things got no better. More pain. More medication, which brought more nausea, more exhaustion, and more insomnia, and eroded her will to live.
          She began asking me to help her months ago. I, of course, wouldn’t hear of it. But she grew steadily worse. Medication stopped even pretending it kept the pain at bay. Her suffering was unbearable—to me, as well as to her. A week ago, her pestering requests began to take on a note of earnestness. She was mortified when I had to help her with her personal hygiene, even though she’d done the same for me during my bout of pneumonia two years back. Last night, when she cried in the darkness for the third night in a row, I made up my mind.
          This morning, I helped her apply her makeup—she never used much—and dress in her church clothes. She was calm as we lay beside one another for half an hour, reminiscing about family—not many of them left now—friends, and our years together. Then I did what I promised to do.
The old man’s eyes staring back at me through the mirror widened in horror. Oh Lord! I’d murdered my wife. Killed the woman I’d loved since I was sixteen. Taken a life I had no right to take.
          I closed my eyes a moment before opening them and staring at my accuser… myself. He was wrong. I did what she wanted. No, what she needed. I released her from her suffering, sent her to a better place. There was no way that beautiful soul wouldn’t have earned a spot in heaven. Now she was pain-free and happy. Most likely greeting the son and daughter we’d lost years ago. Chatting with her mother and sisters… and missing me.
          That thought made what came next much easier. I shucked my bloody clothes, washed and shaved, and dressed in my Sunday duds before lying back down beside Sheila.
          Then I picked up the Luger and pulled the trigger.

*****
I can’t ask if you enjoyed the story… who could? But did it make you grapple around in your memory and wonder if you’ve known people desperate enough to go to such lengths? And if you could have helped in some way?

The following information provides contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com
Blog: dontravis.com
Facebook: Don Travis
Twitter: @dontravis3


As always, thank for being a reader.

Don


New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Thursday, September 7, 2017

Red Rezes

As I told you last week, my son Grant and I are on a visit to our family in East Texas. I grew up in Southeast Oklahoma, Southwest Arkansas, and Northeast Texas with no more than 70 or 80 miles between the three points, so I should have remembered some things. For instance, I should have recalled that when you take a shower, you can never dry off… at least in August and September. You simply mop off the worst of the moisture and pull on your clothes.

This week, I’d like to give you an excerpt from my fellow Okie writer Mark Wildyr’s novella entitled Red Rezes. In it, you meet Curt Huntinghawk and Grover Whitedeer, two members of the Rezagados Colorados, a drug enforcement group. Hope you enjoy it.
*****
Courtesy of Pixabay
RED REZES

By Mark Wildyr

          Hip-sprung and sweat-stained, Curt Huntinghawk stood in the shade of a paloverde and gazed at the twisted, tortured panorama spread out before him. The Sonoran Desert, sliced and diced by an endless web of gullies, arroyos, hills, and boulders, was a forbidding territory with something always eager to bite, sting, rip, tear, or puncture a man. An unseen army of traficantes, coyotes, illegals, or just plain citizens bent on mischief might linger over the next ridge, secure from discovery unless rooted out by the arduous process of tracking by foot.
          Senior members of the Rezagados Colorados, an organization of Native Americans engaged by the Border Patrol to keep a drug watch along the Mexican border, Hawk and his partner, Grover Whitedeer, were on the hunt for drug mules. The hot, exhausting, dangerous work was the most satisfying and challenging either man had ever undertaken. The skill, strength, endurance, and downright stubbornness required of the job put them in spiritual contact with the warrior clans of their ancestors… even if they were toting water for the white man.
          Grove, two inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than Hawk’s six-feet, hundred-sixty-pounds pointed with his chin. “Rooster tail over yonder. Coupla miles, I reckon.” He grinned, transforming him from merely handsome to devilishly good-looking. “We could just forget about it.”
          “Quit daydreaming and go get the Jeep.” Hawk turned and made his way up the rocks behind them to report the wisp of drifting dust in the distance on his hand-held radio. Receiving the go-ahead from headquarters, he joined Grove in the four-by-four. “Moving west by northwest. Probably making for Dragon’s Back.”
          Dragon’s back was a huge hogback of rugged rock that sheltered the only natural water source in the area. Dominating the horizon no more than five miles as the crow flies to the west, the big hump was more like twenty through the washes and arroyos.
          After locating tire tracks two arroyos over, the two Rezes followed at speed in order to outrun their dust tail. Clutching the door posts for support, they flew around the truck’s interior despite seat restraints. They drove with the windows down because it was too enervating to bail out of an air-conditioned vehicle to chase bad guys on foot in the blazing sun. Chances were the other vehicle was more interested in comfort, which might give them an edge.
          As they drew closer, Grove threw the Jeep into four-wheel drive and abandoned the sandy wash to crawl up a crumbling tufa mound. The way was shorter, but hell on the kidneys. As they climbed, Hawk glimpsed the other truck below them.
          “What the hell is that?” he exclaimed.
          The contraption raising a rooster tail in the arroyo below wasn’t quite a tank, but it was close—an army surplus four-wheel-drive deuce-and-a-half fortified with sheet metal sprouting gun barrels like porcupine quills.
           “Get in front of them. That sucker travels on rubber; it can be stopped!”
          His partner rode the brakes down the far side of the rise. More than once Hawk feared they had overcome their center of gravity, but Grove was a good driver and kept the vehicle more or less on four wheels. They nosed into the wash well ahead of the monster crawling up the arroyo toward them. Grove parked the Jeep in an easily accessible side wash, and they piled out to collect rifles from the gun rack.
          “We’ll flatten their tires, and then play it by ear,” Hawk said.
          Grove shook his head. “You’re betting my ass on your ear?”
          “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of it. It belongs to me, you know.”
          Grove gave him a look. “You gonna stand out there and give them the old ‘halt in the name of the law’ routine?”
          “No, but I’ll cover you while you do it.”
          “You’re dreaming, Cowboy.”
          “Well, if armor-plate and gun ports aren’t enough probable cause to bring them down, then tough shit.”
          The two Rezes took up positions and waited for the big vehicle to crawl clumsily around the bend. When it was within fifty yards, Hawk gave the signal.
          They popped both front tires, but the behemoth came plowing on. Half a dozen copper-jacketed shells shredded the self-sealing chambers, and the big truck ground to a halt, the front end dropping like a gargantuan creature brought to its knees. Return gunfire was sporadic and confused.
          The Indians methodically worked on the double rear tires until they gave up the ghost, as well. The truck was now immobilized. Most of the traficantes’ weapons were at the sides or rear of the vehicle. Head-on, the outlaws were only able to bring to bear a couple of side arms. Shifting his attention to the windshield, partially protected by a steel grate, Hawk starred the shatter-proof glass and sent two figures ducking. Grove worked on the radiator until he punctured its shield. The overheated engine spewed scalding steam up the arroyo. Hawk gave a grunt of satisfaction when he burst the canvas water bag hung over the bumper to allow for evaporative cooling, spilling its precious contents spilled into the thirsty sand.
          Three angry men piled out of the rear of the vehicle, spraying the countryside indiscriminately with automatic weapons fire.
          Satisfied the smugglers weren’t going anywhere until the Border Patrol came to scoop them up, he and Grove scrambled for the Jeep. They were halfway up the side of the rocky hill before the bad guys knew they were leaving.

*****
As I understand it, Mark hasn’t published this story as yet. Let him know what you think of it at dontravis21@gmail.com.

The following information provides contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com
Blog: dontravis.com
Facebook: Don Travis
Twitter: @dontravis3


As always, thank for being a reader.

Don


New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

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