The Warren Trading Post Caper (Conclusion)

Well, folks, the story finally let me finish it. It’s probably more accurate to say that it finished itself. Either way, here’s the conclusion of The Warren Trading Post Caper.

The story ended last week with Marlene getting strange phone calls in the middle of the night. Calls from people – or creatures – with odd, metallic voices. Calls that turned her into a demanding sex machine.

*****

THE WARREN TRADING POST CAPER (Part 4)

A week to the day after Walter Black checked out the recording of the mysterious early morning calls, he summoned us to the Warren Trading Post. It was a trip we needed to make anyway because Marlene’s ’09 Chevy Malibu was still sitting in the garage there. She hadn’t left the house enough since her abduction to make the hundred-mile drive worthwhile.

We arrived before the appointed hour and entered the post hesitantly. As soon as we walked through the door, my wife moaned and sagged against me. The restored western wall seemed to have shaken her badly. John’s brother-in-law had done a good job repairing the gaping hole, but the spot where the safe had stood was highlighted by a big rectangle of wood darker than the surrounding area.

“You can wait outside, if you want.”

She blinked a couple of times. “That’s all right. I want to take a look around to see what else is missing. Then maybe I’ll go lie down in back.”

A few minutes later, she had completed her inspection. “Nothing else seems to be missing. Think I’ll lie down now.”

She didn’t have much of a rest because Black arrived soon thereafter, accompanied by a couple of state troopers. He’d barely said hello before other vehicles began arriving. John Benchley walked through the door, followed closely by Big Hat and another Navajo built in the same mold. The stranger was introduced as Delbert, who I gathered was a cousin of Big Hat’s. The Indian under that huge Stetson started for my wife but halted when I put an arm around her.

In Marlene’s dad’s time, the post had been a social gathering place, so a number of old oaken chairs were still scattered around the showroom area. Black had the troopers assemble enough of them so everyone had a seat … except for the two uniformed policemen. They stood behind the detective’s chair and watched everything through expressionless eyes.

Black “ahemed” for attention, and everyone settled down. “There have been a couple of developments I thought everyone should know about. First off, we found the empty safe.”

He allowed time for the inevitable “oohs” and “ahhs” but not for questions before informing us swimmers had found it in Greenwater Lake not ten miles from where we sat.

“Empty? How was it opened?” I asked.”

“It wasn’t burned open like you’d expect. It was totally undamaged except for some scratches likely done while dragging it through the wall. Mrs. Lund, who has the combination to that safe?”

She seemed startled. “Why … just me. And Frank, of course.”

“Did you open the safe for your abductors?”

“N-no. But I don’t remember things, too clearly.”

“And why is that?”

“I –”

“What kind of question is that? Shock, of course,” I said.

“Witching.” John quietly stated his opinion.

“Aliens took her mind.” I think  Big Hat said that.

Black adopted the look of an impatient parent dealing with children. “Let’s be clear about this. We aren’t dealing with aliens.” He looked at John. “Or witches, either.”

“What about the craft someone saw flying around?” Big Hat asked.

“And strange lights,” John put in.

“And a big hole in a three-foot, hundred-year-old adobe wall?” I added. “Not to mention carting off a big safe that weighs half a ton empty. And the weird voice on the telephone.”

Black paused and looked at everyone sitting before him one-by-one. I don’t know about the others, but his gaze provoked a sense of guilt in me – and I hadn’t done anything. “Finding that safe is what convinced me we aren’t looking at aliens or witches. This caper was done by human beings. Perhaps even by someone in this very room.”

I expected gasps and protests, but everyone went absolutely quiet until John asked ta simple question. "How's that?”

“The safe was dropped into the lake from a bluff on the west side, and it took out part of the embankment before settling in shallow water. If some alien or witch was responsible, he – or it – would have plopped the thing down in the middle of the lake in a hundred feet of water. No, this was the work of human beings.”

He looked at me. “As far as the metallic voice on your nighttime telephone calls, that’s a simple electronic device that alters the human voice. Our lab people are certain they can filter it out and get the true voice of the caller. It’s just a matter of time.”

“What about demolishing a three-foot wall?" I asked. "I didn’t see any signs of explosives."

“Our people reconstructed the pieces of that wall in our lab up in Santa Fe and found a hole bored through the adobes.”

Big Hat spoke up. “There you go. Lasers. Those aliens are good with lasers.”

“Not lasers. Plain old masonry drill bits. They drilled through the wall, snaked a big cable through, put a steel plate on it, and jerked out the wall with a truck. To make matters easier, they sawed into the adobe in a few places to further weaken the wall.”

John took off his hat and scratched his head. “And drug off a thousand-pound safe?”

“Plenty of winches in this country capable of that. Big Hat’s got one on the back of his truck, for example.”

“What?”

“And I’ll bet you’ve got a drill with some extended bits in there, as well. What say we go take a look, Hat?”

“You got a warrant?” There was an emotional tremor in the tall Indian’s voice.

“As a matter of fact, I have.” Black said. “Based on a description of a truck seen leaving the vicinity of Lover’s Leap Bluff at Greenwater, a judge signed a warrant for me.”

“Go ahead. You won’t find nothing.” Hat stood and dug a ring of keys out of his denim trousers.

Black handed the keys to one of the troopers behind him. As the officer walked out the front door, Hat started after the man. Black stopped him. I could see from the glint in Hat’s glittering brown eyes that he considered defying the detective. But he backed off and sat down.

“Something else corroborated my rejection of any otherworldly events being involved. Mrs. Lund, you described one of the articles in the missing safe as an extremely rare peace pipe with the stem covered by beaver fur and eagle feathers attached. Is this it?” He held out a photograph.

Marlene leaned forward to examine it. “Yes, that’s it. It’s called a calumet. It’s over two hundred and fifty years old. Where did you find it?”

“In a pawn shop up in the town of Shiprock. This and several other stolen pieces were found yesterday. We also have a video of the individual who pawned the items.”

The man introduced as Delbert got to his feet and started edging toward the entrance.

“Hold it right there, Mr. Adelberto.”

Big Hat’s cousin broke for the door, but when he snatched it open, he ran straight into the burly trooper who had gone outside to check Hat’s truck. The second policeman helped put the man in handcuffs.

When we all settled back down, I noticed Big Hat was no longer in the room. Black took notice, as well.

“Mr. Menda seems to have slipped out.” He nodded to his men. “Put Adelberto in the patrol car and go after Hat.”

The two troopers hustled to obey. Black didn’t seem too concerned at Big Hat’s disappearance. “We have the keys to his truck. He won’t get far on foot,” he explained.

Marlene, sitting at my side, gave a small gasp. That told me all I needed to know. I’d been battling with myself ever since Black’s little show-and-tell had started. Now, all the denial building inside me collapsed.

“Check the garage,” I said. “My wife’s car is there, and I’d guess he has a key.”

Black drew his gun, a big black semi-automatic, as he headed for the door. He was shouting at the other policemen as a car roared up from behind the post. Then we heard several shots and a crash.

I sat numbly and watched Marlene go pale. She looked as if she was going to faint, but I didn’t care. Not really. Not even as one human being feeling for another. Before I finished my thought process, Black returned.

“Mrs. Lund, I’m afraid your car is demolished. I’m sure you heard the commotion. Big Hat tried to drive right by us, and we had to put the vehicle out of commission.”

“Is … is he …”

“He’s unharmed, but in custody. It’s clear what happened. Hat and his cousin planned and executed the robbery very carefully.”

My stomach fell even farther when he didn’t say “and abduction.”

“What about them lights and the craft somebody saw?” John asked.

“Nobody actually saw a craft, Mr. Benchley. All anyone saw was lights. I checked the weather report for the night of the robbery. There was a low bank of clouds. All Hat and his cousin did was use the spotlights on their vehicles to play the beams across the low-lying cloudbank. Pieces of colored plastic in front of the spots made different colors appear."

Black flipped a chair around and sat down facing my wife, his arms resting on the upright back. “The only question is how much you were involved, Mrs. Lund.”

“I … What do you mean? I was abducted.”

“I don’t think so. It took quite a while to drill through and weaken the west wall of the building. You were living here. Even from the living quarters at the back, you’d have heard the racket that drill and the masonry saw made. And, of course, you claimed you’d been abducted by aliens.”

“Hat drugged me. And he threatened me if I didn’t do what he wanted.”

“And I suppose he made you open the safe, as well.”

“Y-yes, that’s right! He forced me to do it.”

“With respect ma’am, that’s simply not true. I’m sure I’ll find every key to this trading post on Hat’s key ring. And his tire tracks are in the garage beside where your car was. I’m pretty sure he’s been living here for quite some time.”

“You can’t prove that!” Marlene’s voice held a snarl and a plea.

“You’re right. I can’t prove that … yet. But I will. Or one of the men will turn on you to make it easier on himself. You can count on that. But for the moment, I don’t have enough to arrest you.” He paused. “You know, you might have gotten away with it if one of those guys hadn’t gotten greedy and sold some of the loot inside the state. Probably Adelberto. Big Hat’s smarter than that.”

#####

I sat where I was for a long time after everyone else left. Marlene had disappeared into the living quarters at the back. I shuddered and groaned a couple of times as I worked my way through my emotions. But eventually, my stomach returned to its proper place and my mind stopped seething.

Then Marlene was suddenly there in front of me. She took the seat Black had been using, folded her long shapely forearms over the worn wood of the chair back, and placed her dimpled chin atop them. Her big, velvet eyes regarded me closely. God, she was beautiful. I wanted her something terrible right at that moment.

“Frank, surely you don’t believe all that garbage Black was saying, do you?”

That was a mistake. On her part. I heard the false note. Saw the hardening of the muscles around her mouth. Discerned the treachery in her eyes. And she wasn’t so attractive any longer. Nor as desirable.

“I’ll tell you how much weight I give his words.” I put as much syrup in my voice as I could summon. “I’m filing for divorce tomorrow morning.”

*****

Whew! That’s done. Wonder what will show up next Thursday.

As always, thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

The Warren Trading Post Caper (Part Three)

The Warren Trading Post Caper has taught me a valuable lesson. If you’re going to post a serialized story to your blog … finish the thing before you put up the first installment. As I said last week, this tale has taken on a life of its own. The story went from two-parter, to a three-parter, and now to a four-parter. All unintentional, folks.

Last week, we ended the story when Detective Walter Black of the New Mexico State Police confronts Frank Lund and Big Hat after interviewing Lund’s wife, Marlene, who although confused, insists she was abducted by aliens.

                                                                       *****

                                       THE WARREN TRADING POST CAPER (Part 3)

The investigation seemed to be going nowhere, which was ridiculous. You don’t beat a hole in an adobe wall, haul off a thousand-pound safe, abduct a woman, and leave no clues behind. Detective Black wasn’t doing his job so far as I was concerned.

Of course, Marlene wasn’t being much help. Whenever asked about the ordeal, her eyes went out of focus and she insisted she didn’t remember anything. Black sent her to a state shrink of some kind, but he didn’t help much. In fact, he set me back on my heels. He was skinny – emaciated, really – and had a big head sort of like an alien. One of those aliens from “up there.”

My wife stayed home in Albuquerque for three solid months under the care of a therapist and was making progress … until the phone calls started. I took the first one at three o’clock on a Wednesday morning. Awakened from a sound sleep, I wasn’t too sharp as I fumbled for the phone beside the bed. Silence greeted my slurred “hello.”

“Hello!” I repeated in a firmer voice. “Who’s there? Do you know what time it is?”

Silence.

I sat up on the side of the bed. “Hello! Answer me or go to hell!”

A strange whine came over the line. Faint at first, and then increasingly loud. I slammed the old fashioned Princess phone down with a bang.

“What’s going on? Who was that?” Marlene scooted up against the headboard, the covers held tight against her chest. Two marks like snakebite fangs we’d discovered on her left shoulder after the abduction almost seemed to glow in the semi-darkness. She’d taken to insisting we sleep with the bathroom door open so the nightlight spilled into room.

“Wrong number, I guess. At least nobody spoke.”

“I-it’s them!” Her voice was almost a shriek. “They’re coming for me again.”

“Nonsense. It was some drunk trying to call home.”

The phone rang again. It seemed shriller than usual in the quiet room. Darlene leaned across me and snatched it up.”

“What do you want?” she yelled. “Leave me alone!” Five seconds later she re-cradled the phone and flopped down on the bed in a fetal position.

I spooned up against her. “Who was it? What did they say?”

Her body shook. “It’s them. They want me to go back to the trading post.”

I got out of bed and reached for my robe. “You aren’t going, but I am.”

“No!” The word came out as a wail. “They said me. Alone.”

I grabbed the phone and started dialing the number Detective Black had left me. Marlene snatched the instrument from my hand.

“Don’t. Please. I don’t want that man prying around in my life again. Just hold me, Frank. Make love to me.”

Making love wasn’t my priority right at that moment, but she held onto me so desperately, I couldn’t help but respond. In a few moments, I was thinking of nothing but the handsome woman beneath me responding to my attentions. In an unusually aggressive but very pleasing way.

#####

The eerie phone calls came again the next night. I answered the first and got the whining sound once again. Faint. Loud. Then faint again before the connection was broken. Marlene took the second one, listened momentarily, and then reacted in the same terrified way. Followed by demanding and giving tremendous sexual release.

I called Detective Black from my office the next morning without letting Marlene know what I intended. He questioned me carefully about the dates and times of the calls and promised to get back in touch with me.

The following day, he phoned me at the office.

“Anonymous cell phone,” he said without preamble. “Untraceable, although I can tell you some of the calls came from the vicinity of your home, and others went through cell towers that were consistent with being near the Warren Trading Post.”

“So we’re at a dead end?”

“At present. We can install some equipment at home so you can record the calls. We might be able to tell something from a recording.”

Marlene must have suspected I had contacted Black because she surprised me by putting up only a token resistance to the idea. The very next night after two technicians attached a little device to the bedroom phone, the phone rang at two in the morning. I answered and got the whining noise. A little more aggressive this time. She answered a second call, listened for a moment, and then handed the phone to me. All I caught was a dead receiver, but Black’s little device allowed us to listen to both the whine of my call and a strange, halting, metallic voice on hers that told her to “Come home now.”

“Why won’t they leave me alone? Oh, God! What did I do to deserve this?” She flew into my arms, the terror replaced by want. “Frank, make love to me! Make me forget!”

That night, it was not Frank Lund who made love to his wife. It was his wife who turned into a nymphomaniac siren and wore me plumb out.

*****

To be continued… once again. I can hardly wait to see how it comes out. I still don’t know. Haven’t finished it yet.

As always, thanks for reading. And take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

The Warren Trading Post Caper (Continued)

This thing has taken on a life of its own and demanded a longer telling. The story has turned into a three-parter. Sorry about that. Last week, we ended the story when Frank Lund called the County Sheriff’s Office after finding his wife’s remote trading post in the western part of New Mexico looted and his wife missing.

*****

THE WARREN TRADING POST CAPER (Part 2)

The county cops immediately called in the state police, and within an hour a detective by the name of Walter Black drove into the parking lot and got out of his unmarked car. After perfunctory introductions, John and I escorted him inside the trading post where he inspected the gaping hole near the spot where the missing safe had sat. He looked over the scene much more dispassionately than either one of us.

“You say your wife is missing, Mr. Lund?”

I confirmed this fact and said she wasn’t answering her cell phone before I provided a description of Marlene Warren Lund, a five-foot, two, 110-pound blonde with sky blue eyes and fetching dimples. In response to a question, I advised that I had last spoken to her at 5:00 a.m. this morning on the rather disjointed telephone call that sent me racing to the trading post. I had not seen her since the prior Sunday when I left for Albuquerque. I informed the detective  the missing safe was a large container weighing approximately 1000 pounds, big enough to accommodate all of the pawn items the trading post held.

In the midst of his interview, the state’s forensics team arrived, and one of its members pulled Black aside. A few moments later he returned with a quizzical look on his face.

“Either of you know anything about some sort of craft flying in this area last night or early this morning? A helicopter, maybe.”

Both John and I shook our heads. “Don’t know anything about it,” I said.

“You know anyone with a chopper or a small plane?”

Neither of us had personal knowledge of such craft, but John mentioned that the gas plant owned a helicopter. About that time, the head of the forensics team chased us outside. Black warned us not to leave the area, and then went around behind the trading post to take a closer look at the outbuildings. I leaned against the fender of my car and worried about my wife while John took out a can of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. After I declined his offer of one, he lit the crude affair with an old-fashioned wooden match and settled back to wait with me. John wasn’t much of a talker, but somehow his presence was welcome. He was a connection to Marlene’s past and that was comforting.

Black came from around behind the main building talking earnestly on his telephone. As he drew near, it was apparent  he was concentrating on trying to run down the aircraft, or whatever it was, that someone had reported seeing near dawn this morning. Judging from his end of the conversation, things weren’t going well. All anyone had really seen were lights flashing in the general area.

After the detective reentered the trading post, John bestirred himself to speak. “Big Hat ain’t gonna take this too good. He’s gonna come flying when he hears about it. You better get ready.”

I knew all about Big Hat. Or at least the tall, good-looking Indian that hung out under the gigantic Stetson. His name was Charles Menda, but nobody ever called him anything but Big Hat. Even Marlene called him that when they were going together. They’d been an item for a couple of years before we hooked up. As a result, Big Hat wasn’t too kindly disposed toward me.

“You keep that guy away from me, you hear?”

John gave an uneasy chuckle. “I don’t keep him away from nobody. He don’t ask my permission.”

Black came outside and beckoned me over. “Mr. Lund, the Albuquerque Police tell me your wife is at home.”

“At home? And the police are there. Is she all right?”

“Seems to be unharmed. Confused, but unharmed.”

“How did she get there? Her car’s in the garage out back.” Another thought struck. “And why are the police there?”

“I asked them to check the house. The detective I spoke to said she’s confused about what’s happened. Said she seems disoriented.”

“I’ve got to go to her.” I turned to John. “Can you get someone to seal up the hole in the wall?”

Black spoke up. “You stay right where you are. I’m having her brought here.”

“Why? She’ll be better off at home.”

“This is where the crime was committed. So this is where I want her.”

Black was adamant, so I switched from protesting to making arrangements with John for his brother-in-law, who did some construction work on the nearby reservation, to patch the hole in the trading post’s wall after the forensics team turned the building back over to us. After that, I tried to phone the house in Albuquerque, but got no answer. Apparently, Marlene was already on the way.

#####

My wife and the Albuquerque police and Big Hat all got to the trading post at the same time. Marlene got out of the police cruiser and sort of wobbled over to me. When I enfolded her in my arms, she began crying.

“It’s okay, honey. You’re safe.” I noticed Big Hat watching from the cab of his truck.

“It was horrible, Frank. Horrible!”

“What was?”

Black stepped up and stood uncomfortably close. “Mrs. Lund, I’m Detective Walter Black of the State Police. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything until after I interview you. We can go to your living quarters at the rear of the store where you’ll be more comfortable.”

I insisted I was going with them, but Black was just as insistent that I wasn’t. He and his badge outweighed me and my wedding license. They entered the building without me.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Big Hat got out of a blue Dodge Ram pickup outfitted with a host of steel boxes. He was a mechanic who apparently hauled his tools around with him.

That huge brown Stetson floating toward me atop a lean, six-two Indian seemed to exude suppressed violence. “Lund, I find out you had anything to do with this, I’ll take you down personally.”

I drew up to my full five foot-nine height and poked a finger at him. “She’s my wife, Big Hat, and I’ll thank you to keep out of our business.”

“She might be your wife, but she’s my friend. What’s going on? Tell me right now.”

John stepped between us. “Take it easy, man. We don’t none of us know what this is all about.” He shrugged. “Other than taking out the west wall of the post and hauling off a big safe. Oh, yeah, and some lights hovering around somewhere about dawn this morning.”

We spent fifteen minutes arguing and making threats while John patiently filled Big Hat in on what little we knew. After that, a sullen silence grew as we waited another three-quarters of an hour until Black emerged from the post. Marlene wasn’t with him. Big Hat and I both started for the door.

“Hold on there,” the detective said. “Who’re you?” He addressed the Indian.

“My name’s Charles Menda, and Marlene Warren is a friend of mine.”

I forgot for the moment he was bigger and tougher than I was. “Marlene Lund, you lunkhead,”

He ignored me. “What did Marlene tell you?”

Black paused for a moment before answering. “That she was abducted.”

“Abducted,” I said. “Abducted by who?”

The detective speared me with his eyes. “Aliens.”

“You mean Mexicans?” Big Hat asked.

Brown lifted a finger skyward. “No, I mean aliens.”

*****

To be continued…again. Hope it’s been interesting enough to draw you back one more time.

As always, thanks for reading. And take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

The Warren Trading Post Caper

How about another short story today? Unlike last week’s story, this one is a contemporary tale told in two parts.

*****

THE WARREN TRADING POST CAPER

Blue skies. Gently rolling terrain. Purple mountains in the distance. Sounds like paradise, right? Not when a merciless sun boils tar right out of the pavement. I passed an endless stream of road kill, one a rattlesnake that appeared to have become mired in the goo and died out of desperation. I felt like that reptile as my tires struggled free of oozing oil with each turn of the wheels. The air conditioner in my Camaro struggled to keep the temperature at an acceptable level even though it was only eight in the morning.

My race across this desert terrain had started with a telephone call at five o’clock this morning. Marlene’s voice had sounded desperate. Frantic, actually. I couldn’t quite make out what the problem was before the uncertain connection was broken, and I was left to stare into a dead telephone. She had called from the little store her parents, Mike and Evelyn Warren, left her following their tragic automobile accident last year.

I had encouraged her to sell the establishment, but she had been raised in that trading post out in the middle of the western New Mexico desert. So sentimentalism triumphed over good sense. At least in my opinion. I worked full time for an engineering firm in Albuquerque and was only able to make the hundred-mile drive to Warren Trading Post on weekends. I had thought she would soon tired of the loneliness, but she seemed to thrive on it. And I had to admit our reunions every five days were something to look forward to. She was comfortable; I was frustrated.

I topped a rise on a surviving stretch of old Route 66 and spotted the trading post on the south side of the two-lane highway about a mile ahead. A pickup turned into the store as I watched. I tromped on the accelerator and managed to lurch into the parking area just as an Indian I recognized as John Benchley, tried the door. It appeared to be locked. John, a friend of my wife’s since childhood, beat on the door and shouted for Marlene. He turned as I slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car.

“Hi, Frank. You got any idea what’s going on? Marlene ain’t opened up yet.”

We both knew my wife never opened later than 7:00 a.m. in order to serve coffee and donuts to a few regular customers – most of them local area Navajos – on their way to work at the natural gas processing plant 20 miles to the south. “No idea, John. I got a frantic call at five o’clock, but we were cut off. I got here as fast as I could.”

I fumbled with my keys and managed to get the door open. As I entered calling for my wife, an ominous silence shouted back at me. Both of us came to an abrupt halt and gaped at the sight confronting us. A portion of the western wall of the trading post was gone. A hole the size of a small truck gave us a perfect view of the sand outside the building.

“Jesus! What the hell happened here?” John asked. “What could take out a three-foot adobe wall like that?”

“And where in the hell is my wife?”

I shouted her name as I ran through the store to the living quarters at the rear. After a thorough search of the entire premises, including the two small building behind the post, revealed no trace of Marlene, I discovered John searching the ground outside the wrecked wall.

“Whoever or whatever it was raked and swept the area clear. I can’t find nothing but a faint track over here where they got careless. Maybe a semi tire print, but maybe not. Damn, Frank, did you notice the big safe holding all the pawn goods is missing?”

“So is Marlene.” I paused a beat. “What do you mean, whatever?”

“There was doings out here last night.”

“What doings?”

John shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno. Lights. Things a man don’t look at too close.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Just saying …”

“I don’t have time for stories about witchcraft, man. Marlene's missing! I’m gonna call in the County Mounties.”

*****

To be continued. What do you think? Witchcraft? New Mexico's "Alien" country, you know. Time will tell. Hope it’s been interesting enough to draw you back next week.

As always, thanks for reading. Read, read, read! Please.

And take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Let’s Do Another Short Story: POW

Today's story is longer than usual (and I’m told my posts are too lengthy, anyway), but I hope you’ll stick with me through the entire tale, which takes us back to the terrible days of World War II. It’s called POW:

*****

A steel door banged somewhere in the bowels of the Schloss. Private Max Hackler shuddered. They were coming for him. Fighting a wave of terror, he gripped the frame of the iron bunk bolted into the concrete wall of his cell. As the driver for an important general, he would be suspected of having vital information. How could he convince them the Old Man had plucked him out of an infantry platoon and made him a substitute driver less than a week before he was ambushed on a minor personal errand for his new boss?

Hackler had been whisked to a farmhouse where he was roughly questioned by a heavy-handed sergeant before being trundled off to this forbidding old Rhine castle and locked into a dank, cold cell. Since then, he’d been ignored except for an occasional food tray delivered through a slot in the rusted, iron door.

The sound of heavy boots halted outside his cell. He stood, squared his shoulders, and sought to stop trembling. A sergeant entered and beckoned him outside where a squad of four men conducted him up long, curving flights of stone steps to a carpeted marble hallway. The cold, moist atmosphere turned pleasantly warm and dry. The detail halted before a carved oak door that was likely ten times older than Hackler’s twenty years.

Inside a large, airy office, he was shoved into an antique chair and left alone in the room. Hackler lurched to his feet and scrambled to a casement window that in another age had probably served as an archer’s slot. To his dismay, the walls fell in a sheer drop of at least fifty feet.

“Quite a jump,” a deep, commanding voice said in Hackler’s own tongue. Startled, he whirled to find an officer had entered the room from a side door. “Not one you’d survive, I’m afraid.”

Drawing to attention, he regarded the man. Crisp uniform. Spit-shined boots. Ramrod posture. Handsome. Athletic. If he understood the foreign insignia correctly, this man was a major.

Without the slightest accent, the Major ordered him into a chair in front of a broad desk. “My name is Luebke. Major Karl Luebke. You may address me as Major or Sir. Understood?” He paused while Hackler gave a nervous nod.

Luebke took a seat and examined a thin folder on the desk. “You are Pvt. Max A. Hackler. I understand that you are the driver for a very important commander. Correct?”

Hackler responded with name, rank, and serial number.

Luebke waved his hand. “Come now, let’s dispense with that nonsense. What harm is there in admitting that you drive for a general officer? After all, you were captured in his personal vehicle. Am I to believe you stole it?”

“No, sir, I was just going on an errand.”

His interrogator’s half-smile alerted him to his mistake.

They verbally jousted over the errand and his duties until the officer brought his hand down sharply on the desk. Hackler jumped an inch off the creaky chair. Instantly, Luebke leaned back and drew a long cigarette from a silver case. “May I offer you one?”

Determined to make no more blunders, Hackler shook his head.

“Very well. I am sure you have heard a thousand horror stories about what happens to prisoners of war. Some of them are true, but while you are here at the Schloss, there will be no such unpleasantness. Provided you are of some use to me. You must justify my keeping you out of a POW camp. Admit to me that you are his driver, and that will suffice for the moment.”

To his eternal shame, Hackler nodded his head.

“Good. You will be returned to your room and fed.”

He nodded again and rose as the door behind him opened. The detail hustled him back into the dark dungeon of the massive stone fortress where the walls glistened with icy moisture. Huddling on the bunk beneath a thin woolen blanket, he mulled over his interview with Major Luebke.

#####

The next day, a sergeant – a man called Goetz – and a corporal came for him. Instead of turning toward the stairwell, they dragged him into a room at the end of the dark, musty corridor. His heart almost failed when he saw what it contained. He could put no name to most of the contraptions, but they were undoubtedly instruments of torture. This couldn’t be! The major had promised.

“Strip!” Goetz ordered, shoving him inside. His knees buckled, dumping him against a metal mummy. A sharp edge tore into his forearm painfully. Blood quickly soaked his sleeve. The pain revived him, reminded him he was a man. Fuck ‘em! Let them do their worst.

Hackler lost some of his bravado when he stood naked and shivering on the cold stone floor. His heart pumped too fast, leaving him giddy. Goetz walked a circle around him, inspecting him like a side of beef at market before grabbing him and throwing him onto a table. A special kind of table. He had seen enough films to know the name of this diabolical contraption. The rack.

Arms and legs secured to shackles, his body jerked full length when the sergeant turned a wheel. The man paused when Hackler’s shoulder joints gave small pops. He was helpless but not unreasonably uncomfortable … yet. He swallowed audibly as Goetz’ appeared above him. Despite the chill, sweat popped out on his forehead and leaked from his exposed armpits. The air turned close from the stink of fear.

“I thought you might need to stretch a little.” The sergeant laughed at his own crude joke before turning serious. “I hear you been giving the Major a hard time. He asks you simple questions, and you give him attitude.” Unlike the Major, the NCO had a heavy accent. “No more, you understand? You answer him in a respectful tone, or you’ll be back here for some serious stretching. First the ligaments rip … and the muscles. Then the joints tear apart. Pop like busted balloons. The condition you come off this table is the way you’ll be for the rest of your miserable life.”

“The…the Major promised me this wouldn’t happen.” Hackler forced the words out, fearful his bladder would give way. Or worse yet, his bowels.

“He won’t find out nothing about it. You behave yourself, you don’t never see this place again. You don’t cooperate, and we’ll have a little session down here all by ourselves. You can scream your head off, and he’ll never hear you.”

A voice barked from the doorway. “Sergeant, what’s going on here?”

The two enlisted men snapped to attention.

“Just a little softening up, sir! No harm done.”

The Major came into view. He took a long moment to examine Hackler from head to toe and then indicated the cut on the prisoner’s arm “Who drew blood from this man?”

The sergeant’s voice held a sneer. “He fell against the Iron Maiden, sir.”

“Clean him up and take care of that cut. Then bring him to my office. Snap to it!”

Freed from the frightful machine, Hackler staggered off the table and turned away to dress. By the time he finished, the Major was gone.

“You lucked out this time, punk.” The sergeant sneered. “But next time ….”

An hour later, Goetz delivered him to the Major’s office on the third level of the castle. Hackler remembered reading the higher you go in a castle, the closer you are to the baron or lord or whatever. Where the hell that thought came from?

Luebke dismissed the sergeant and motioned Hackler to a chair. “Are you ready to cooperate?” he demanded. When Hackler began reciting his name, the Major slammed the desk and stood. “Enough! You are privileged to be held here in this intelligence headquarters. But you will remain only so long as you are of value to me. Is that understood?”

Hackler nodded and spread his hands helplessly. “But I don’t have any information. I only drove the General for a few days.”

“Private, you will let me judge what has value. And you will address me as sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

For an hour, Luebke asked questions while Hackler sat mute except for giving name, rank, and serial number. At last the officer lost patience.

“Very well, I gave you every opportunity. Sgt. Goetz will ship you to the nearest POW camp immediately. I happen to know that place. You will not do well there.” He raised his voice for the sergeant.

Goetz pulled him out of the office and shoved him down the hallway toward the narrow, winding stone stairs “Glad you was crazy enough to tell him to fuck off,” the man said. “Now I’ll get an hour alone with you. Just one hour, and I’ll know everything there is to know about you. Then I’ll send what’s left of your sorry ass to the camp where they’ll kill you slow.”

The non-com’s words turned Hackler’s guts to liquid. There was one thing he did know. Something he’d overheard by accident. Something the enemy could never learn about.

The Private struggled to pull himself into something approximating a proper military posture and tucked his chin. Then he marched resolutely down the hall, leaving the detail struggling to catch up. When he reached the stairs and looked down the steep well, he knew what he had to do. He drew a deep breath before pitching  headfirst down the long, steep flight of stone steps.

#####

Karl Luebke stepped out into the bright morning sunshine and pulled his greatcoat close about him. The previous night’s snow was rapidly melting. Soon winter would be hard upon them. The American major turned and gazed at the flag flying from a distant rampart of the old castle. The Stars and Stripes always stirred his blood.

Too bad about the German boy, but there would be an unending stream of Teutonic men for him and Sgt. Goetz to break before this terrible war ended.

*****

That’s it for this week. Hope you got something out of the story. Not a pretty one, but not all that unusual for the times, and a reminder that fear can take us in unexpected directions.

Thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

EITHER OR Results and Something for THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT fans

Last week’s post, EITHER OR, brought lots of page views but not so many responses. Don’t be shy. There’s still time to send me your endings.

Those that I have received seemed split pretty evenly. Roughly half had the protagonist turn left as he (or she) exited the Dagwood Sandwich Shop to follow the bold brunette with ruby red lips and intense stare, while roughly the same number had the character turn right and follow the blond hunk with laughing eyes. But that’s not as revealing as it seems, because some decided the narrator was male and others that she was female. That made for some interesting combinations, leading me to believe you readers are a rather complicated lot.

Send me some more endings at dontravis21@gmail.com!

This week, let’s take a brief peek at THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT, which introduces Albuquerque Confidential Investigator, B. J. Vinson to readers, and hopefully makes fans of them all. In the following scene at the beginning of Chapter 12 (Page 113), BJ is frustrated by a rift with Paul Barton, a friendship he’s come to value. The break was caused by the fact Paul’s name keeps surfacing in the case, and BJ is eager to have the thing over and done with. He decides to revisit cashiered Marine Gunnery Sergeant Rory Tarleton, the man who printed copies of the racy photographs for Emilio Prada.

#####

     After a miserable night, I got up on the wrong side of grouchy, feeling empty, yet unable to face breakfast. I hungered for one of the Denver omelets Paul made so well. I wanted to watch him wake up. Talk to him. Laugh with him. Let him ask a thousand who-what-why questions about my life. I wanted him.

     Moving as if I were underwater, I forced myself into the shower and mindlessly went about the routine of cleaning up. I needed to get some things done, but in deference to the fact I wasn’t fit for human contact, I steered clear of the office and started retracing my steps.

     While picking up a single-use camera at the nearest drug store, I went surly with the clerk and was immediately contrite. My problems were not hers; doubtless she had enough of her own. I crawled back into the car and snapped twenty-four random shots on the way to the South Valley.

     Rory Tarleton’s homestead was considerably tidier than on my first visit. No one answered my knock, and there was no sign of him in the darkroom at the rear of the place. I was just slipping back into the Impala when the roar of an engine caught my attention. Rory rolled down the road on a US Military Indian Motorcycle, complete with sidecar, and parked in the drive beside the old Toyota up on blocks. The antique motor stroked smoothly, a testament to his mechanical skills.

     “You again,” he groused. “What you want this time?”

     “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” I snarled. Then groping for an attitude change, I sighed and glanced around. “Looks like I did you a favor. The place looks a thousand percent better. Now if you’ll only get rid of that junker-car, the joint will look decent.”

     “No way. That Toyota’ll run like a top when I get through. I’ll double my money on it.”

     “Like you will with the bike? It’s new, isn’t it?” It wasn’t new, of course. It was probably a leftover from WWII.

     He puffed up a little, and I figured that was as much pride as he would allow to show. “Yeah, just picked it up a few days ago. Didn’t take much work to get it purring. Whadda you want, anyway?”

     I held out my camera. “The same deal you made Emilio. By the way, have you heard from him?”

     He shook his head. “Not since them pictures. Same deal? Okay, for fifty bucks I develop, print, and forget them. I’ll let you know when they’re ready.”

     “Nope. I’m gonna watch you work. Just like Emilio did.”

     He shrugged, jiggling his beer belly. “Whatever. But I get paid up front.”

     “No problem.” I peeled off some bills Del would eventually replace.

     The next hour was devoted to staying out of Tarleton’s way in the cramped little shack behind the house. Even by the muted glare of the hazy red light he’d snapped on, I could see he wasn’t duplicating the negatives—if such a thing was even possible.

     Tarleton was giving me funny glances by the time he draped the last print over an old-fashioned heat drum. He flipped on a sixty-watt bulb as the first photos peeled off the drier. Grabbing the first three, he shuffled through them before facing me with a bayonet in his hand.

     “What the fuck’s going on, Vinson?”

     “What do you mean?”

     “Them pictures ain’t nothing. You coulda gone anywheres and got them done for ten bucks tops! How come you brought them here?”

     “Wanted to watch you work.”

     “You still looking for them dirties Emilio had?”

     I nodded. “Trying to trace them from development to the blackmailer.”

     He relaxed and buried the tip of the long bayonet in the wall beside his table. That was his stress reliever; the planking was pretty well splintered.

     “You lied to me—about one thing, anyway.”

     He wrapped his fist around the hilt of the knife. “About what?”

     “About the way Emilio paid for your skills. You got an administrative separation from the Corps, didn’t you? And here you had me fooled by that kiddy porn with little girls.”

     Anger suffused his heavy features, but he relaxed almost immediately. “Wasn’t fooling nobody. Sex is sex. ‘Sides, Emilio kinda looks like a girl if you squint your eyes. And he paid me the fifty, too—just like I said.” A foxy smile crawled across his lips. “So by rights, you still owe me.”

     “In your dreams, Tarleton.”

     He smirked. “That’s okay. Be kinda hard to take you for a girl. Besides, you’re too old for me.”

     “You like twinks, huh?”

#####

Our ex-gunnery sergeant is kind of a smarmy guy, huh? He’s just one of the gentler creatures BJ runs into while running a blackmailer-turned-killer to ground in ZOZOBRA.

Thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

WRITE YOUR OWN ENDING

Let’s have a little fun today. I’m going to start with a story opening, but I’ll take it just so far. You get to write your own ending. You can even send your ending to me at dontravis21@gmail.com, if you wish. So put those imaginations to work. Should you do it in a foreign language, please provide a translation.

#####

EITHER/OR

The Dagwood is a pretty good sandwich shop catering to impoverished students at the university. You know, decent food – and a lot of it – for reasonable prices. Its plain décor of whitewashed drywall and nicked Formica tables and booths is comfortable. You can get a conversation going or put up an invisible sign saying you’ve got cram for an English Lit test without any trouble. Traffic is always steady but not rushed except at lunch and dinner, then it’s a mad house.

This afternoon, I took my Dagwood Roast Beef on dark rye with three different cheeses and sweet red peppers to a corner table. No fries, and I had reluctantly declined the free chocolate chip cookie. It’s too easy to start packing on the weight, especially with a schedule that doesn’t allow for much exercise. Of course, I get some of that by walking the campus from end to end to meet my classes.

My best friends, Norman Pell and Maggie Shipton, had wanted me to go out for dinner at some uptown place, but I was pretty well ruled by my monthly budget, and Dagwood’s fit the bill. So I temporarily broke the mold of our triumvirate and asked them to go ahead without me. Besides, I was feeling a little out of sorts. Restless. Maybe craving something different. Let’s face it, I was horny. Not that I was going to find anything, but still …

I always cut my Dagwood sandwiches into small pieces in order to eat the gigantic things without looking gross. I finished that operation and was nibbling on a small wedge when I noticed a girl sitting alone at a table across the room. Girl … young woman, really. A brunette about my age with a heart-shaped face, fair skin, and wide eyes tastefully outlined with mascara. The irises were brown probably, although from this distance, I couldn’t tell. Generous lips on a rather small mouth.

She was staring at me, so I immediately named her Daisy in my mind and took the time to finish my inventory. Full bosom of the kind that showed cleavage. Her pantsuit was short enough to expose slender ankles, and shapely ankles do something to my libido. Open-toed pumps revealed scarlet toenails. My eyes automatically went to her hands. Long – but not overly long – fingernails so red they glistened in the fluorescent light.

I looked up to find her still watching me with a frank, appraising stare. My heart rate picked up. She smiled and leaned back in her chair, which thrust out her upper torso alluringly. Embarrassed, I went back to my sandwich. Whenever my eyes strayed, she was watching me. Should I go over and invite her to join me? Or just wait her out and see what happened?

I hadn’t made my mind up yet when I glanced up and saw a young man seated two tables to her right. His amused glance told me Brick – that was the name that popped into my mind – had caught the byplay between Daisy and me. I felt my face go red. The right side of his broad, sensual mouth ticked up in a lop-sided grin.

Brick’s hair was that indeterminate color between sandy and brown and curled around his ears in an engaging way. His face was more square than Daisy’s, definitely masculine. His eyes were slightly canted and obviously green. A hint of chest hair poked above his open collar. I dropped my gaze to below the table, and he obligingly spread his legs. My breath caught in my throat at the enticing way his jeans were packed.

I glanced back at Daisy and saw a puzzled frown on her face. In a moment, she’d catch onto the byplay, as well. But as I watched, she pushed away her plate, stood to smooth her slacks and take up her bag. Then with a long look at me, she walked past to push open the door. As she turned left, she let her eyes rake me one last time in an obvious invitation.

Movement brought my gaze back to Brick. He was on his feet, as well. Eyes boring into mine, he let his grin grow into a dazzling smile. Then he, too was through the door. He turned to the right.

Trying not to appear hurried, I abandoned my uneaten sandwich and pushed the café door open. After a moment’s hesitation, I turned …

#####

Okay, readers, it’s your turn. Which way did our protagonist turn, left after Daisy or right after Brick. And by the way, what was the narrator’s gender … male or female? Finish the story, and if you wish, share your ending with me.

Thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

A LITTLE EXCITEMENT FROM THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT

I thought maybe we’d revisit THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT this week. You know, I really like the cover on this book. That flaming, open hand picks up the theme of the Burning of Zozobra ritual at the Santa Fe Fiesta and throws it right back in your face. Martin Brown Publishers are good at cover art. That’s Sharene Martin Brown’s doing, I think. Not Robert, he’s a good publisher and great dancer, but cover art? Nah, that’s his wife’s thing. As a matter of record, I like the cover on THE BISTI BUSINESS just as well, possibly better.

But I digress (something I seldom do, you know). The following scene comes near the climax of the book in Chapter 27 (Page 259, as a matter of fact). During tense moments in the case, BJ has returned to his third-floor office in an old historic building at 5th and Tijeras NE across the street from the public library in downtown Albuquerque. He’s returned at night after being on a stakeout most of the day. You should know his building has an open middle atrium with offices around the perimeter, accessed by a landing with a sturdy brass rail.

#####

But it was the last message that really caught my attention. Mrs. Gertrude Wardlow, my plucky neighbor across the road, had noticed a suspicious car passing up and down the street two or three times earlier in the evening. She suggested I use “extreme caution” in returning home. What a wonderful old gal.

If this mess kept up much longer, my staid and stolid neighbors would ask me to move. On second thought, most of them hadn’t had this much excitement in ages. Safe, or presumed safe, behind their windows and drapes, the old geezers probably scanned the street every night before going to bed to check on that “private investigator fellow” down the street.

Resisting the temptation to sack out on my office couch, I got up, stretched, and started to leave. An indistinct noise from the landing—a footfall, a shoulder brushing against the wall, something—stayed my hand on the doorknob. The door was a solid plank of heavy oak, but a panel of frosted glass to the left darkened momentarily as a shadow passed across it. After five minutes of inaction, I cautiously cracked the door. A quick look up and down the landing revealed nothing alarming. If anyone was on this floor, he wasn’t visible, but a side hall leading to the restrooms lay between the elevators and me. Was someone crouching in ambush there? I stepped out onto the landing, locked the door, and tugged the peashooter from my belt. I turned away from the elevators and made for the stairwell.

I did not hear my assailant’s sneaker on the carpet until it was too late to face him, so I dropped to all fours. He tripped over my legs and fell with his body sprawled halfway across mine. Before he had time to recover, I gained my feet and sagged against the metal banister at the outer edge of the landing. Clinging to my back, he came up with me, flailing with a knife. When the blade ripped into my right biceps, I panicked, twisting away from the hand with the blade and straightening my back to throw him off of me.

Time switched to slow motion. The man clawed at my shirt for a moment. Then his center of gravity shifted. He slid over the railing. I clutched at his legs but couldn’t hold on. He fell with a terrified scream. I leaned over the railing and watched him flip on his back during the forty-foot drop to the hard, polished tiles below. He landed with a terrible suddenness and a sickening thud. A dark corona haloed his head. The blood and the clatter of his knife across the baked clay squares, kick-started my brain and released my frozen muscles.

#####

Hope you enjoyed the read. I also hope it grabbed you by the neck and demanded you order a copy of the book. Except for the famous ones, authors are always poor and starving. At any rate, that’s it until next week – same time, same place.

Thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

A CLOT IN THE CREAM

Time for some more flash fiction. Hope you can sympathize with Marvin Hoeckler and give him a little support as he breaks some personal news to his parents.

#####

A CLOT IN THE CREAM

By Don Travis

Panic? Disappointment? Fear? Probably all of those, but mostly it was mortification at letting my parents down. I’d just done what I’d been struggling to do for the last three years. Confessed something close to my heart. Something that made me me.

Cheeks blazing, I cut my eyes to the left where my mother sat, head down, lips moving silently. Likely praying. Begging enlightenment for her profligate son.

My gaze swept across the old-fashioned kitchen table laden with hot fluffy buttermilk biscuits, steaming platters of bacon and sausage, and a tray of over-easy eggs with yolks like yellow eyes filmed with albumen cataracts. The heady aromas seemed somehow diminished by the situation. Maybe I should have waited until after we ate.

My father, filling up the chair to my right, glared at me through flared orbs made even bigger by thick bifocals. His face was as red as I imagined mine to be.

“Marvin Hoeckler, tell me you’re putting me on.” His voice hovered between anger and disbelief. “We’re simple dairy farm people. We don’t get mixed up in things like … well, like that.”

My insides shriveled as I realized he couldn’t even bring himself to say the word. I’d known he would take it hard, but this was worse than anticipated.

“Son, are you sure?” Mom asked, sounding as if she were just coming out of shock.

“I’m positive. I’ve known since I was fifteen.”

My father loosed an explosive snort, a sign he was really mad. “You’re my only son, and I won’t stand for it, you hear? You live under my roof and eat my food, you’ll live my rules. And those rules don’t stand for nonsense like that.”

“Now, Father—” my mother began.

“Don’t you take the boy’s side, Bertha. Don’t you dare! You know the plans we made, and they don’t include this kinda thing.”

I went defensive. “I do my share of work. I pay my way. If I wasn’t here, you’d have to pay a hired hand.”

“Don’t backtalk me, boy, or I'll take on that hired hand tomorrow morning.”

The skin on my back went cold and puckered. I hadn’t considered my father might kick me out of the house. Mortification abated as fear took a healthier bite of the apple.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I said, unsure my tone supported my declaration.

“Not a big deal?” Dad didn’t even bother to snort that time. He let his rising voice do the job for him. His fork hit the empty plate with a clatter. “I never saw anything like that in you.”

“I dabbled at it now and then, but I guess I was good at hiding it.”

“It’s not every dairyman in the state who has to sit and listen to his son confess nonsense.”

“Dad, be reasonable. There are bound to be others who feel like I do.”

He rose and threw his napkin on the table. “I doubt that. Most sons would have the decency to keep such things to themselves?”

I shrugged my shoulders and held up my palms. “How? You’d know eventually.”

He stomped out of the room without bothering to answer.

My mother’s touch as she placed a hand on my arm drew me back to her.

“Be patient with him, Marvin. He’ll just have to come to terms with this in his own way and in his own time.”

“How about you? Are you okay with it?”

She sighed and withdrew her arm. “I’ll handle it. After all, you can’t go through life without an occasional clot in the cream.”

I winced. My confession that I wanted to be an artist rather than a dairyman had rendered me into a clot in the cream.

#####

Poor Marvin. That was quite a confession. But when folks get fixated on something, it’s hard to make them see another point of view.

See you next week, same time and same place. Thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Does the “Do Not Call Registry” Mean Nothing Any More?

I don’t know about the rest of you, but years ago, I diligently listed both my telephone and cell numbers with the National Do Not Call Registry. Since then, I’ve updated the numbers by registering each of them again.

For quite some time, the precaution was quite effective. I very seldom was interrupted by an unwanted call. And on the rare occasion I was, I dutifully notified the registry of the violation. This past year, however, things seem to have changed. Calls from “blocked” numbers or “unidentified” callers are showing up with increasing frequency. In cases where the calling number is shielded, I have learned to wait patiently until a human interrupts the robocall to eagerly anticipate a live customer on the other end of the line. Once I determine the identity of the outfit calling, I inform the intruder they were being reported to the Do Not Call Registry.

I now see the scumbags (I really shouldn’t use such hyperbole for people simply trying to make a living for their families) have another trick up their sleeve. The last couple of calls I answered did not have the blocked or unidentified alerts. Instead,  the screen on my telephone was filled with a long string of numbers that defy identification. They are banking on me believing this was simply a software glitch and accepting the calls. It worked for the first two times, but now they stand revealed.

The most recent slew of calls have all started out in a similar way:

“Mr. Travis?”

“Yes.”

“This is Alex (or John or Thomas or Steve) with Word. We see that you may have some problems with your computer.”

Yeah, right … Alex. Alex with an East Indian accent (and I don’t mean the Iroquois Confederacy in the Northeast United States). Stay with them long enough, and you’ll learn they want to sell you a not inexpensive service contract for troubleshooting your computer.

To be honest, I bought a contract from such an outfit a couple of years ago. Again, in the spirit of fair dealing, I must say that when I contacted them for help, they took remote control of my computer and managed to solve most of the problems. I had trouble reaching them at times, but worse was the difficulty of understanding what Alex and Tom were saying. They had the same problem understanding me apparently, as I usually had to state my problem multiple times. Sometimes my calls were automatically transferred to a number with a definite continental ring tone. More often than not, these were never answered. Needless to say, I did not renew, even though they had been relatively responsive and responsible.

For the last three months, I’ve had numerous calls from such outfits. These are not robocalls, and it is always Alex with Word or Alex with Microsoft on the line. They seemed to be fixated on the European name of “Alex.” But the heavily accented voice is not the same each time. I have now simply reverted to the tactic of saying I know this is a scam, and am reporting it as such before I hang up.

But my friend “B” has hit on a much more effective tactic. She told me she had a similar call last night. The man’s spiel was that he was Alex with “Microsoft.”

“For the past week,” this particular Alex said, “we’ve been getting a signal from your computer that it has a problem.”

B says she has no idea where her response came from, but it was right there. “Wait! Wait!”

“What?” Alex asked.

“You’re right. I hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“Hear it calling out.”

“You … do?”

“Yes, my computer’s saying, ‘Help me. Help me. Oh, please help me!’”

Alex hung up.

#####

Well folks, see you next week, same time and same place. In the meantime, I hope you aren’t overwhelmed by people wanting to fix computer problems that don’t exist.

Thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.