John Jacob Kinsolver, Part Three of Four Parts

 dontravis.com blog post #578

 Photo courtesy of Freepik

 

 Last week, Albuquerque police Detective Dave Field, who’s investigating the murder of John Jacob Kinsolver, a well-known and popular former cop turned private investigator, discovers an unsuspected side of the dead PI’s life when he locates nude pictures of young men, one of whom is named Luther. Eventually he runs down the elusive young man in an Indian bar on East Central.

 *****

JOHN JACOB KINSOLVER

The kid readily agreed when I asked him to accompany me down to the station. Gave me no trouble at all. In fact, he proved helpful, quieting the rumbles of objection—some filled with implied threats—that rose all around us. He also rejected multiple offers to accompany him to police headquarters. He moved with impressive masculine grace as he stood and came around the table. His photographs hadn’t lied. This was an extremely attractive youth no matter the angle he was viewed from. When we passed through the door into the early evening light, my impression didn’t change, except perhaps he was younger than I’d estimated. Late teens, maybe.

We rode downtown in silence, and although I cast several glances his way, he stared straight ahead with a totally bland expression on his face. One of those unreadable faces you read about in the old western novels. A hide-behind face, I think they called it.

As soon as we were seated in the interrogation room, he slid a warn wallet across the table at my request for identification. No wonder Doris hadn’t located him. His driver’s license—which was current—was South Dakota issue under the name of Luther Standingdeer and showed him to be twenty-one. Good genes.

I tried for gruffness but wasn’t sure it came off that way. “This has a different name on it. You go by an alias? Why?”

His smile was slow and rueful. “Never thought about it like that, but I guess I do. Years back, I started introducing myself as Luther Standing when I wasn’t on the reservation. Got fewer ‘looks,’ I guess you could say. Before I knew it, that’s the way I started identifying myself everywhere. It’s not illegal, is it?”

I brushed his question aside. “You know a man named John Jacob Kinsolver?”

That earned a nod from that handsome head. “Yes, sir.”

“How did you know him?’

A slight hesitation. “Met him at the downtown library. I was sitting at one of the tables reading when he sat down and started thumbing through a book. After a while, he struck up a conversation. Seemed like a nice guy, so when he offered a cup of coffee, I took him up on it. Turned out to be lunch and a nice visit. He even took me back to where I was staying when we finished.

“Where was that?”

“I was living with this girl at a place on San Pablo SE.”

“In the War Zone?”

“I guess that’s what they call it.”

“What’s her name?”

He provided it and added he wasn’t staying there any longer.

“Where now?”

He gave me an address on Wisconsin NE.

“Who’re you living with?”

“It’s my own place.”

“Where do you work?”

“Did a few odd jobs for Mr. Kinsolver. I’m a handyman, so I get work here and there fixing things up and doing some landscaping.”

“So you have no regular employment?”

He spread his hands. “Guess I’m what you call self-employed."

The kid was so calm and self-contained as I led him through my questions that I decided to shake him up. I glanced at him sharply. “Let me see your knife.”

“What knife?”

“The one you used to kill John Jacob Kinsolver in an alley two blocks south of the very bar I found you in an hour ago.”

All it earned me was raised eyebrows. “Why would I do that? He was a good man. Gave me work and recommended me to friends.”

I took a shot in the dark. “And paid your rent in your new apartment.”

He nibbled his upper lip. “Yeah. He did that.”

“So what happened? He refuse to pay the next month?”

“Paid it for six months. It’s not up for another couple of months.”

“Why in the hell would he pay a six-month lease for you? He didn’t even know you that well.”

A shrug. “He was just that way. Like I said, a nice man. He didn’t mind giving a guy a helping hand.”

I threw him another curve. “You go for older men?”

“What?”

“You peddle your ass to older men, or do you go for ones your own age? Naw, they can’t pay like the John Jacob Kinsolvers of this world.”

Then he threw me a curve. His voice turned harsher. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

“Him?”

Mr. Kinsolver helped me out. He was a good man. Don’t go saying bad things about him.”

Interesting. His concern was for JJ, not himself? Or was it an act? “Yeah, he helped you out after you posed for him. I saw the photos, Luther. Don’t try to deny it.”

“Why would I?”

I mentally shook my head. He wasn’t reacting like I expected. “Because of that last picture in the group. You know, the one with the hard-on.”

Another bland look. “He asked me to get that way, so I did.”

“You didn’t mind him taking a picture like that?”

He had the grace to turn a shade darker. “He asked, so I said okay. He’d been good to me.”

“I’ll bet.”

We sparred for another hour, but ultimately, I had to let him go with a warning not to leave town. Who was I kidding? He’d probably head straight for South Dakota. But I had nothing to hold him on, so I did the next best thing.

“Luther, I’m counting on you not to run. Here’s my card. I want you to call me every Monday morning until I tell you to stop. You hear me?”

He accepted the card and stared at it a moment before nodding. “Yeah. I hear you.”

I could have just tossed him out on his ear and let him find his own way back uptown, but I didn’t. I’d kind of liked the way he’d stood up for Kinsolver.

“The bar or home?” I asked as we got in the cruiser.

“Home. It’s on—”

“Yeah, I know. Wisconsin, a block north of Central.”

About the time we passed the University of New Mexico campus, he glanced over at me and spoke.

“What about Harold?”

“What about him?”

“You ever consider he might have been the one to hurt Mr. Kinsolver?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because of me, I guess. Maybe I did get Joh—uh, Mr, Kinsolver killed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Harold didn’t like it that I was around. That Mr. Kinsolver was spending some time with me.” Luther licked his lips. “Harold looked me up once and threatened me.”

“Threatened you? How?”

Luther’s eyes went straight ahead again. “Said he was gonna beat my ass... after, uh, after he fucked it.” The kid sorta stumbled into his next comment. “Does Harold still carry that knife?”

“He carries a knife.

“Uh-huh. A small hunting knife. Had it in a sheath on his belt every time I saw him.”

“He try to use it on you?”

“Naw. He didn’t try nothing. Not after I got in his face. But he was mad about Mr. Kinsolver spending time with me. I… well, I know how it was between them. And I think he was afraid Mr. Kinsolver would get tired of him and look to me.”

“Did he have any reason for believing that?”

The kid just studied his hands resting in his lap and didn’t answer. I let it drop for the moment, merely reminding him to call me on Monday.

As I pulled away from Luther’s place, I smiled. Now I knew how to push Harold Balderson’s buttons.

****

 

So what does Detective Field have in mind? For sure, he’s going to interview Harold again. But is he finished with Luther? Next week’s finale will reveal all.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

John Jacob Kinsolver, Part Two of Four Parts

 

dontravis.com blog post #577

 Photo courtesy of Freepik

 

 

Last week, Albuquerque police Detective Dave Field caught a case involving the murder of a well-known and popular former cop turned private investigator, a man named John Jacob Kinsolver. By searching Kinsolver’s personal and agency files, he discovers a life no one else suspected. Kinsolver liked boys—more specifically, young men. Handsome young men. One of them, Harold Balderson, worked for the PI and was obviously a kept man. Then Dave runs across a new name: Luther.

 

*****

JOHN JACOB KINSOLVER

Photographs in the Luther folder were all more artistic than erotic… save one. But the care devoted to posing and light exposure somehow rendered them more stimulating. The subject was not only well formed but also sublimely comely and somehow ethnic in features. I judged him to be in his late teens or early twenties and extremely photogenic.

Following my review of the photos, I scoured Kinsolver’s journal until I found the first reference to a “Luther,” about a year ago. My victim was so fulsome in his praise of the young man, he failed to reveal how the two met. But as I read on, it became obvious John Jacob was besotted with the young man. Other journal entries appeared rushed so he could devote his time to describing events with his new muse. And Luther appeared more and more frequently in his notations, reminding me of love-sick longings in some teenager’s personal diary.

Apparently, their rare meetings—punctuated by lengthy laments in the journal—did not result in consummation until about three months before Kinsolver’s death. Descriptions of the momentous event were more poetic than graphic, but nonetheless raised a slight sweat on my neck as I read. Although descriptions were spare, I fully understood the part teach played in their trysts. Finally, I came upon a surname. Standing.

Our paragon of male beauty was named Luther Standing. And with that, came a recognition of the ethnic bent I’d observed. This young man was likely a Native American. That name had, no doubt, been shortened from something like Standing Bear or Standing Horse or somesuch. I had no clue as to tribe, but whichever one it was, they sure grew them fine. The discovery of the family name sent me back to the photo file to examine the last photograph in the array, the one I’d referenced as a departure from the norm for the Luther shots. Definitely erotic. Full frontal with Luther Standing… well, standing. Impressive.

Reluctantly, I returned to being the hard-nosed detective assigned the task of determining who had killed John Jacob Kinsolver. Yes, the individuals in the photo arrays—including Luther Standing—were possible persons of interest, but there might be others. I spent days going over the dead PI’s files, noting some subjects worthy of consideration because his investigations had resulted in a significant impact on their lives. By the end of the week, I had a list of ten individuals I wanted to interview. Five of them… personal, I guess you could say, including Harold, his assistant, and Luther, the object of JJ's devotion. The other five were subjects of his investigations. I started with Harold.

He sat straighter in his seat when I read him his Miranda warning. “You think I killed John Jacob?”

“Did you?”

“Hell, no! He was my meal ticket, man. I worked for him. Now, I’ve got no job. That don’t make sense.”

“And you bedded him.”

“I what?”

“To be crude about it, Harold, you fucked him.”

The young man lost some of his tough guy attitude and turned a light shade of pink. “What are you—”

“You can’t deny you’re aware of the photographs. Had to be, you were posing for the camera for some of them.”

“Yeah, I… well….”

“And the journal pretty well describes what went on between the two of you. If that’s not enough, he paid your apartment lease for this year. In advance, I might add. Looked like a permanent thing.”

Harold hung his head and was silent for a moment before he looked me in the eye. Pugnacious Harold was back. “So what? You know that, you know I didn’t want nothing to go wrong with it. Sweetest deal I ever had. Why fuck it up?”

I spread three photographs on the table before him. “What about these? Competitors?”

He eyed them casually. “Nah, they came before me. He told me all about them.” A lascivious grin split his lips. “Compared me to them regularly. I came out on top every time.”

A fourth photo--one of Luther Standing--slid the table and came to rest against his arms. “And this one? How did you rate compared to him.”

“Yeah, I knew about him. Even met him once when I came back to the office one night to pick up something I’d left.” His smile turned wolfish. “Something I needed before I met my girl that night.” Harold casually pushed the photo away. “Pretty, but namby-pamby. John Jacob didn’t like namby-pamby. He liked men—like me. Luther wasn’t his type.”

“Do I detect a little jealousy?”

He leaned back in his chair, exaggerating his masculinity. “I was, I’d go after Luther, not my meal ticket.”

I kept at him for another hour before letting him go with a warning not to leave town.”

“I’m copacetic till the first of the year, Detective. Then I’m splitting this burg”

“Rent’s up, huh?”

****

The first two of JJ’s crushes were in the system. Ronald Berger got busted for male prostitution and Rolf Milton for prostitution and robbery. Milton was in the pen at the time of JJ’s murder, and Berger had left for Illinois, where he was from. I confirmed both of these facts before turning my attention to the remaining two. The PI’s journal gave me enough information to run down Jack Fearless without much trouble.

Fearless wasn’t what I expected. In fact, he should have been named Fearful. Attractive enough physically, he tuned up as soon as he took a seat in the interrogation room. I spent five minutes trying to convince him I wasn’t with the sex squad but don’t think I succeeded. Well, maybe I did, because when he heard the word homicide, he collapsed into a puddle of weeping jelly. For a moment, I considered calling in his mother—who had brought him to the station—but decided that wasn’t a good move. What would I do with two blubbering individuals?

Eventually, he calmed down enough for us to start.

“You take a good picture, Jack.”

He put two and two together and turned a bright red before muttering “Thank you.”

“How long were you ‘friends’ with Mr. Kinsolver?”

“T-two weeks.”

“Only two weeks?”

“Yes, but we got together several times.”

“Why did he stop seeing you?”

His shoulders rose in a shrug. “Don’t know. I liked him. Guess he didn’t like me.”

“According to his journal, he liked you very much.”

“Really?” The shrug again. “Anyway, he stopped asking me over.”

I could see why. I’d asked around the department and found a couple of cops who knew Berger and Milton, and they’d both been masculine, aggressive types. The opposite of this kid. At the end of an hour, I was convinced Jack Fearless couldn’t shiv anyone. He’d have been more likely to take a knife to himself than someone else

That left Luther Standing. But JJ’s journal gave no clues where to find the guy. Doris Staples, one of the women in the department was pretty good at locating missing people, so I handed over a couple of his photos and asked her to have a go at it. She examined the pictures and let out a low whistle. “Oh, I’d like to find him. But I gotta warn you, Dave, Indians can get lost on reservations very easily. He a Navajo?”

“Don’t have any idea. Doris, give it a try while I turn my attention to John Jacob’s cases.”

She agreed, so I did just that. The most likely prospect died a quick death, and I mean that literally. The guy died of a heart attack a week after JJ closed the case. When no vengeful relatives turned up, I moved on to the rest.

I got so involved in tracking down and interrogating—and eliminating—the others on my list, I almost forgot about Luther Standing. Not really forgot, just delayed approaching Doris to ask what she’d found. I suspected she’d found nothing, or she’d have contacted me. When I finally approached her, she confirmed my suspicion.

“Sorry, Dave. He’s not in the system. Doesn’t have a New Mexico driver’s license. Can’t locate a social security number. The Public Health people at the Indian hospital don’t know him. Struck out with local Native American groups, addiction clinics, and the like.”

Appreciate you trying. Now I’ll give it a go.”

“Turn up any suspects?”

“Nope. Just eliminated them.”

“Hate it that John Jacob went that way. He was a decent guy.”

I considered the life JJ had hidden from the rest of us, but decided I concurred. “That he was.”

After pondering possible courses of action the rest of the day, I decided on the simplest of them all. JJ was found in Indian Alley, so I left my department Chevy at the park on Morningside and looked around. None of the people enjoying the park admitted to knowing anyone named Luther Standing, so I started hiking north up the unofficial highway through the alley without finding anything of interest. When I reached the side street housing the city’s best known “Indian Bar,” I turned north and stood in front of the rather unimposing building. The low rumble of jukebox music and multiple conversations penetrated the closed door. Taking a deep breath, I pulled it open and stepped inside.

Dark. Smoky. And quiet as a tomb the moment I entered. The place oozed hostility. As my eyes adjusted to the muted light, I made out a few individual faces. They were routinely dark and closed. Stifling an urge to run, I moved through the bar. A big table in the far corner caught my eye, mostly because it was filled with young people. I made my way over to it, halfway expecting an assault from any quarter. Reminded me of entering a Serb village in Kosovo without backup some years ago when I was serving.

Now I know that tables do not actually have heads. But this one did. And at the head, sat an achingly handsome young man who stared at me intently as the girl draped all over him, hugged him even tighter.

After pausing a moment, I raised my voice. “Luther Standing?”

A smile tugged at the young man’s lips. “That’s me. Who’re you?

 

****

 

So Detective Field has located the enigmatic Luther. His field of suspects in the death of John Jacob Kinsolver are shrinking… in fact, they’re down to two. Harold, Kinsolver’s long time lover, and the mysterious Luther Standing.

What in the world could possibly happen next? We’ll see with next week’s episode.

Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

John Jacob Kinsolver, Part One of Four Parts

 dontravis.com blog post #576

 Photo courtesy of Freepik

 

 

Perhaps the period of reposts and guest posts is over for the moment. Got two edits done, still working on another and laboring over a novel, but found time for a new story. This one is a three parter. Hope you enjoy.

 

*****

JOHN JACOB KINSOLVER

My eyes scanned the spot I had last seen John Jacob Kinsolver. Of course, his body had been removed from the alleyway, his blood had been absorbed by the earth, and the crime scene tapes taken down. Nonetheless, I could see him lying there as keenly as I had a month earlier.

An ex-Albuquerque cop, John Jacob at earned a reputation as a licensed private investigator. Not the sleazy, shabby gumshoe pictured in novels and on film, he’d been honest and upright. No one ever called him John or Jack or Jake; it was always John Jacob. That’s the kind of respect he’d earned. However, I soon tired of that and came to think of him as JJ.

There appeared to be a bit of mystery about why he’d left the force and gone private. And when I’d asked my partner, an old grizzly called Detective Charlie Whiteside, now retired to Florida, he’d answered rather whimsically, “It was different at APD back in those days, Dave.” He’d leave it at that and walk away. Nobody ever referred to the Albuquerque Police Department as anything but APD. That said it all.

Naturally, I’d asked some other old timers the same question, but all I ever got was shrugs or “Let it lie, Detective Field.”

My partner had just retired, and I hadn’t been assigned a new one on the day a vagrant flagged down a cop to report a body lying in an alley on the south side of East Central. Indian Alley, the old timers called it, as it was a corridor frequently trod by the city’s urban Natives to travel from a park near Morningside SE up to and Indian bar on Central SE near the fairgrounds. It was also known as a gay cruising area, although there was no correlation between the two. I’d always found our Native American community just as accepting or just as hostile as any of the other ethnic groups of the city.

At any rate, I’d caught the case, and worked it solo. John Jacob had not been married and had no known relatives. The only familiar I’d located was an assistant about ten years younger than JJ’s forty years, who made no objection to me rooting around in the detective agency’s files.

Harold Balderson was a bit of an enigma to me. Good looking, in a rough sort of way, his pugnacious attitude peeked through even when he was attempting to be cooperative. I got the feeling he could be nasty when crossed. Physically, he resembled his boss in build, about five-ten, a hundred and seventy-five, fighting to keep from going to one eighty-five. He’d regularly done some of the grunt work common to investigations, stakeouts, online checks, and the like. Funny. Usually, the online stuff and phone calls were done by a secretary, at least in the movies I’d seen.

 A search of the company records revealed John Jacob Kinsolver earned way more money that an ordinary department detective—despite the burden of funding his own office, providing for his retirement, and health insurance. And, he didn’t have a hierarchy to contend with. Maybe I’d discovered why he left the force.

His list of clients was impressive. Well-known names, including the mayor’s and a couple of state officials, showed up with regularity. Some of them might claim I was taking unauthorized advantage of PI privacy privileges, but I had no interest in the information rather than looking for the party or parties who planted a knife in JJ’s liver and then in his heart. Still, it might become tricky if things went to a criminal trial. Licensed investigators had certain privacy privileges under New Mexico law.

It wasn’t until I got into JJ’s personal computer, a Dell laptop, that I began to understand a few things. This was no dour, stick-in-the-mud hard-nose. Some of his personal accounts revealed a different person from the one I knew. His relationship with Harold Balderson took on a whole new aspect when I discovered a series of nude photographs of the man. By switching back and forth between the photo files and a journal I found, a story began to unfold.

John Jacob Kinsolver had noticed Harold when—as a member of APD—he gave a talk to a University of New Mexico criminology class. He’d been impressed by the then twenty-two-year-old’s questions and interest in his subject. He’d done no more than note the student’s name and commented on his handsome appearance. And that was the end of it.

Until… almost a year and a half later, he’d cruised Indian Alley and unexpectedly come upon the handsome Harold earning some extra money in his senior year by offering himself on the street. It seemed that the thrill—and perhaps the danger—of the pickup had appealed to both Harold, as the purveyor of the goods, and to JJ, as the illicit purchaser. Back in those days, APD had not been gay friendly. Indeed, they’d been known to set honey traps for closeted gay cruisers. Now I understood the answer to the question I’d posed to my partner and others. APD was no friendlier to gays on the inside of the department than they were to those outside of it. John Jacob Kinsolver had known when it was time to leave.

With this discovery, I concentrated on Harold Balderson. Even though I attempted to show no change of attitude with my new knowledge, his antenna was finely tuned, and he grew more cautious, less accommodating. He should have known where I’d focus my attention, those closest to the victim were those who got the hardest look in a murder case, especially at the beginning of the investigation. Given his educational and vocational experience, he doubtless understood that, and tried to ease my suspicions by being open and helpful… to a point. He hadn’t mentioned his personal relationship, which had undoubtedly continued over the years. That explained the generous salary and company car. Harold might work for the agency, but he was also a kept man.

Not only that, but he was the only individual close to the victim. Of course, given JJ’s profession, there were likely countless individuals wandering the streets of Albuquerque or behind the black iron bars of various penal institutions who hated John Jacob Kinsolver.

Even though I had Harold down at the station in an interview room more than once, I resumed sifting through JJ’s records. I discovered photographs of other young men, all nudes or near nudes. None were overtly sexual, although for one of JJ’s persuasions, they would provide titillation, possibly even outright excitement.

And then, I came across a file that told me Harold might not be the only individual in Kinsolver’s life. And I reached that conclusion solely from the fact that this young man’s photos were in a file all his own. When I opened it, the first photo took my breath away. A young man, totally nude, stood in near silhouette with his back to the camera, his head thrown back, releasing a cascade of gleaming hair so dark I was reminded of wet coal I’d once seen over in Madrid east of Albuquerque. His arms were spread as if welcoming the morning deity, His broad shoulders fell to a narrow waist, slightly flared hips, and slender, muscled legs slightly spread. The physique was one a gay like John Jacob would have lusted over, while a straight like me could only envy.

Beneath the photo, JJ had penned a single word.

“Luther.”

 ****

Revealing? Maybe, although it doesn’t take much imagination to think a whole bunch of people might have reason to despise a nosy private investigator, maybe even to hate him. And who is Luther? Maybe we’ll learn the answer to that question next week. Until then…. 

Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

The Janus Effect – A Repost

 

dontravis.com blog post #575

 Photo courtesy of The Free Dictionary

 Hope you enjoyed the story of Tommy and the Mixterns. Another Repost this week, one from almost exactly four years ago: November 16, 2018. In case you’re wondering why I’m doing a series of reposts and guest blogs, it’s because at the present moment, I’m editing three novels and attempting to write a third. You might say, I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. At any rate, I hope you enjoy this little literary exercise.

Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

 

*****

THE JANUS EFFECT

 

In Roman mythology, Janus was the god of gates and doorways who gazed simultaneously in two directions, signifying a look at the beginning and the end… or a view of opposites. This writing exercise attempts to do just that.

From Robert’s viewpoint:

I slurped the last of my strawberry milkshake as Samantha exploded through the door and steamed across the black and white checkered tile floor directly to my table, bringing with her storm clouds and the scent of gale-lashed roses.

“Hi, Sammy. Have a seat.” My voice sounded loud in the quiet atmosphere of the malt shop.

“Don’t start with me, Robert. You know I hate being called that. And just what do you think you’re doing?”

I could almost see flames from her flaring nostrils, although she looked nothing like a dragon. Not even a cute one. “That’s a dynamite hat. Looks great on you. You should wear it more often.”

That threw her for a loop. Her blue eyes widened momentarily before returning to mere slits. “Answer my question. Just what did you say to Hank?”

“Let me get you something. What would you like? No, wait. I know just the thing.” I got up and walked to the counter, feeling her eyes flay my back like a laser.

A couple of minutes later, I returned to the table with her favorite… an old-fashioned cherry phosphate. She couldn’t hide a momentary look of pleasure. Some of the color faded from her cheeks. Guess I knew how to cool her down.

After one dainty draw on her straw, Sammy stared directly into my eyes. “Answer my question? What did you say to Hank?”

“Did you know he was two-timing you?”

Aha, caught her off guard. Her eyes were ping pong balls for about a tenth of a second. And now, they weren’t so squinty.

“Don’t go spreading that nasty rumor,” she said, struggling to maintain her attitude, “And if you don’t answer my question right this minute, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Time to bring this to a close. I rose, gazed down on her, and dropped my voice. “I told him that if he hurt you, he’d have to deal with me.”

With that, I turned and walked away before I confessed something I ought not. Not right now, at any rate.

 

 

From Samantha’s viewpoint:

I stormed through the ice cream shop door and spotted him at a table across the checkered tile floor, slurping the dregs of a strawberry milkshake through a straw striped like a barber’s pole. His greeting did nothing to improve my mood.

“Hi, Sammy. Have a seat.”

I saw red as I dropped into the white painted, iron curlicue chair opposite him. He knew that nickname infuriated me. “Don’t start with me, Robert. You know I hate being called that. And just what do you think you’re doing?”

He regarded me through dark chocolate irises. “That’s a dynamite hat. Looks great on you. You should wear it more often.”

Oh, no. That wasn’t going to work, although I was momentarily pleased he’d noticed my black Dutch boy with a brown brim. “Answer my question. Just what did you say to Hank?”

The idiot ignored me. “Let me get you something. What would you like? No, wait. I know just the thing.”

He bailed out of his chair and fled to the counter, most likely to escape by my anger. I couldn’t help but notice how his broad shoulders tapered to a trim waist.

He was back a minute later with my favorite. A cherry phosphate. Damn, he would pick the one place in town that served the things. Well, he’s not going to coddle me out of my snit. Still, no sense wasting the drink. I took a deep tug on the straw, swallowed, and faced him again.

“Answer my question? What did you say to Hank?”

His face turned bland. Crap, he was good looking even while bland. “Did you know he was two-timing you?”

The dirty creep. That was a low blow. Play it cool, girl. “Don’t go spreading that nasty rumor. And if you don’t answer my question right this minute, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Something happened to his face. It closed up. He surprised me by standing and staring straight into my eyes. He smelled of the milkshake he’d just imbibed. “I told him that if he hurt you, he’d have me to deal with.” Then he walked away.

Audacious bastard! Who does he think he is? He’s not my knight in shining armor. I don’t need—

Still, it was sorta sweet of him.

 **** 

Two different viewpoints of the same scene in this little exercise. Don’t know about you, but I found it interesting.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Mixterns-A Repost (Part Two of Two Parts)

 

dontravis.com blog post #574

 Clip Art Courtesy of Seekpng.com                                                                             

 

 

Last week, we left ten-year-old Tommy in the dark on a stormy night when his parents can’t get back to the farm because of a washout. Is he dreaming, or are there aliens in his father’s potato patch? Let’s find out.

 

*****

MIXTERNS

I didn’t hear them, but Brute did. He hopped off the couch and ran to the front door barking his head off. And from outside the door, came, “Yip, yip, yip!” He scuttled back to the couch and wiggled his way underneath it.

Something brushed against the back door.

“Go ‘way! I shouted.”

“Go ‘way!” the thing echoed.

I heard others at the windows. The creatures had surrounded the house. I snatched up the tactical flashlight, ran to the closest window, and pressed the lens against the pane before switching the light to strobe. By the flickering light, I saw a monster outside, but he wasn’t flinching, and his head wasn’t deflating. He wasn’t doing anything but peering in the window, his eyes covered by something dark. Sunglasses! Well, not like any I’d ever seen, but they must have done the same thing. When he swung an arm at me, I dropped the curtain and scrambled backward on my behind. I heard it scrape the glass, but the window didn’t break.

I scrambled up and ran to my room. Without knowing why, I put on my Cut Scout uniform. Maybe my brains were scrambled from terror, but I felt more prepared. Until Brute started going crazy in the living room, that is. Then I heard a different kind of yelp.

Racing back to the front room with my weapon—it wasn’t just a flashlight anymore—I found one of the creatures holding a terrified Brute by the nape of his neck. I’d have thought my buddy was dead but for his eyes frantically searching the room for me.

“Leave him alone!” I yelled and rushed forward with the light strobing fiercely. I didn’t get far. Something snatched the flashlight from my hand and lifted me off my feet with what felt like a cable wrapped around my chest. It took a second to realize it was another creature holding me against him. Before I lost reason to terror, I remember thinking the thing wasn’t flesh and blood at all. It was a machine, like in that old movie the War of the Worlds. But it wasn’t metal imprisoning me. Not flesh, either. Not human flesh, anyway. It was something in between.

No matter how much I struggled, I couldn’t get free. Kicking the thing holding me didn’t seem to bother him. He marched out the back door, which they’d opened without kicking it in, and started for the potato field. Others fell in beside him, making me think of army guys marching in step. An occasional whine let me know the one carrying Brute was right behind me.

In the trek across the yard and the field, I forgot to be scared, especially as we neared the big ship sitting partially buried in the mud. Big and black and mysterious, it had a ramp in the side where we seemed to be headed. Lord, were they kidnapping us? I mumbled the first prayer I thought of, which was the one about laying me down to sleep, as fear took possession of me again.

Several of the creatures swarmed around holding what looked like tools, working at another hole in the side. One that seemed like a compartment of some sort. As scared as I was, a little common sense penetrated my brain. Something had happened to their ship. They’d crashed—it seemed more like a crash landing—and were trying to repair things. A thousand-million crickets seemed to be chirping like crazy as they chattered among themselves. A sudden bolt of lightning struck about a mile or so beyond old man Wilson’s farm across the road, and every one of the creatures ducked. The ones without the sunglasses—or whatever—held arms or tentacles to their heads. Then they went about their business again.

Light! They couldn’t stand white light. That’s why all the lights around us were blue.

We entered the ship and went straight to a big hall where one of the creatures sat in a big chair raised up like it was a throne or something. A few other creatures clustered around a nearby table studying something, maybe the operating manual for this big airship. The chirping noises stopped as they all turned to stare at us through huge uncovered eyes as we neared.

The one holding me threw me to the floor before the throne; the other one dropped Brute. As my fearless protector scrambled over to cower between my legs, the creature holding my flashlight bowed before the one on the throne and handed over my weapon. The one in the chair examined it briefly, accidentally turning it on. Everyone cowered before the flashing light, but the creature managed to get it turned off. Suddenly, he leveled a finger or claw or something in between at me and emitted a loud, scratchy sound My knees went weak, almost dumping me on top of Brute.

Another creature, bent and leaning on a stick of some kind, addressed the creature cricketing at me. The king or chief or ship’s captain or whatever he was stopped chirping and looked at me. He extended a long, cable-like arm and raised his chin—if he’d had one. I blurted the only thing I could think of.

“I’m T-Tommy.”

“I’m T-Tommy,” he parroted.

I shook my head and managed to keep from stuttering. “Tommy.”

He leaned back and pursed tiny lips. “Tommy.” He folded his long whip-like arm and touched his chest. “Akachetto.” He waved his arm toward the others and said something that sounded like “Mixterns,” so that’s what they became to me.

He chirped some more, and others came bearing what looked to be stretchers. They folded back metallic blankets to expose two of the creatures with withered heads. I caught my breath and exclaimed, “Dead?”

“Dead” he parroted, pointing first to me and then to the forms lying before him. “Tommy. Dead.”

My heart about jumped out of my chest before I figured out he was trying to ask a question. I nodded and said. “Accident. It was an accident!”

“Accident.” He chirped back and forth with the old one before nodding at Brute. One of the creatures snatched him up before I could protest.

“No!” I yelled as they handed my pet to the old one. He pulled out something that looked like a hypodermic, except it had no needle. He pressed it against Brute’s neck, and the thing made a hissing sound. Brute yelped and went limp. One of the others—guards, I guess—handed Brute to me.

The touch of his soft, fur, the half-closed lids on his once-bright eyes released me from my paralysis. “You killed him! You killed my dog!” Tears came flooding, making speech impossible.

“Bobby dead Mixterns,” the thing on the throne said. “Akachetto dead dog.”

At his bidding, the guards shoved me in a far corner of the big hall and stood by as the minutes and hours tolled. I sobbed over my dead friend until exhaustion brought me a troubled peace.

****

Loud, excited chirping roused me. Mixterns came flooding into the ship, jabbering at one another like crickets gone wild. At last, Akachetto took his place on the throne and one of the creatures bowed before cricketing at him rapid fire. Akachetto nodded and pointed in my direction. The guards came for me while the rest scurried about like they were on a mission. And I guess they were. The problem with the ship was probably fixed. Now we’d soar off into space, and I’d never see Mom or Dad again. I tuned up for a little crying before the two guards prodded me to my feet and herded me through the ship, me still holding my dead friend. Then I saw the ramp. Were they gonna let me go? Before they shoved me through the hatch, the old one with a cane appeared with his syringe in hand.

I jerked away. “You can’t kill him twice!” Leave him alone.” Oh, Lord! Was he gonna use it on me and leave our bodies in the potato field?

The old one ignored me and pressed the thing to Brute’s neck. It hissed again before I managed to tear away and run down the ramp. I didn’t stop until I got to the windbreak, then I turned, expecting to see the creatures coming for me.

But they weren’t. The ramp was folding in upon itself, and the hatch was closing. They were leaving. I felt movement in my arms. I glanced down through the still-dark night and saw Brute give a big yawn. Then he reached up and licked my face.

“Brute! You’re not dead!”

Joy flooded my whole being. My friend was back. They’d undeaded him.

I glanced up as a loud hum built. The earth shook as the craft pulled itself out of the mud with a big sucking sound. It hovered a moment a few feet off the ground before moving straight up in the air and then simply vanishing.

Putting Brute down, I skipped around to the back door, which still stood open. I examined the door and the frame but didn’t find any damage. How’d they get in?

All of a sudden I was so tired, I almost didn’t make it to the couch. I’d barely stretched out with Brute snuggled against my belly when I passed out.

****

I woke at the sound of my mom’s voice “Tommy! Tommy! Let us in.”

“He’s barred the door. Smart kid. I’ll go around back,” my dad said.

I still wasn’t completely awake when he came into the room and headed for the front door. “How you doing, sport?” he asked, as he let my mother in.

“Fine,” I mumbled. Then I came awake. The Mixterns. I needed to tell….

But my lips remained sealed. I’d probably dreamed it all. Bad dream. Nightmare. Except… it came out all right.

“Tommy,” my mother exclaimed. “Why are you in your scout uniform? And there’s mud all over your boots. Did you go outside?”

“Yes’m. For a minute.”

Despite that, I convinced myself last night had been a dream… until my dad looked out the window and exploded.

“What the hell happened to my potato patch?”       

****

I dunno if he was dreaming or not… but something happened in that fallow field.                                       

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Mixterns-A Repost (Part One of Two Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #573

 Clip Art Courtesy of Seekpng.com

 

I hope you enjoyed Hargis’ venture across the land to meet his two friends. At least now he knows which one he treasures most dearly.

 

Today, I went back to August of 2019 to find a little tory which caught my fancy enough so I’d like to repost it. Bear with me, please.

 

*****

MIXTERNS

By Don Travis

 

I must have been pretty grown up for my folks to leave me alone at home after dark. Alone except for Brute my gray Schnauzer, that is. My parents had gone to a birthday party at Aunt Mitzi’s and Uncle Darrell’s house in town, but I’d begged off. Wouldn’t be any kids there, and the gifts would be grown-up things. The TV in our living room was more interesting than a bunch of people talking about things I didn’t care anything about.

The freak thunderstorm rattling the shutters took a little wind out of my sails until Brute plopped down on the couch beside me with his head in my lap. But just as Marshal Dillon was about to draw down on a sneaky bad guy, the television went black. I hadn’t even had time to recover from that before the lights went out too. My heart lurched as I sat in the dark, watching a dying spot of light on the TV set.

I didn’t panic—maybe scared a little but didn’t panic. Heck, I was ten-years-old and a Cub Scout to boot. In a couple of years, I’d be a Boy Scout, and they were always prepared. I groped my way in the darkness, listening to the rain thump on the roof and rattle against the glass panes, until I reached the kitchen cabinet where dad kept the big tactical flashlight he’d bought for emergencies like this. Long and heavy as a club, it cut a big swath through the darkness when I managed to get it on. I liked to make it strobe, so that’s the way I set it, but the flickering light made walking back to the living room too uncertain. I made it quit.

I no sooner sat down on the couch again than the telephone on the table in the hallway rang. I scooted over, wondering how come the phone worked when nothing else did. It was my mom.

“Are you all right, Tommy?”

“Yes, ma’am. Raining like blue blazes and the lights went off, but me’n Brute are okay.”

“You know where the flashlight—”

“Yes’m. I got it right here.”

“Your father wants to speak to you.”

After a moment he came on the line.

“You okay, sport?”

“Yessir.”

“There’s been a flash flood at the creek, so your mom and I won’t be able to get back home for quite a while. Maybe not until morning. You all right with that?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Was that something moving in the corner? I swung the flashlight around. Nothing there.

“I—”

A big crash followed by a bright light made me just about jump out of my skin. The phone went dead in my hands. Lightning. Close. I stood quietly as chill bumps puckered my skin. I swallowed hard and spoke into the dead phone. “Brute and me’ll be all right, Dad.”

****

After I crawled onto the couch again and got over that scare, things didn’t seem so bad, even though the old house made noises I’d never noticed before. The rain passed, but the wind that came after it kept my mom’s rose bushes scratching at the front window like they were trying to get in. My heart stopped racing when Brute lifted his head and gave a big yawn. He was asleep before his head hit my lap again. Nothing to worry about.

With nothing else to do, I fiddled with the flashlight, making it strobe, widening the lens so half the room was alight and then narrowing it down so I could pretend a laser was boring a hole in the wall. Eventually, it dawned on me that I’d better save the batteries. When I shut it off, everything was as black as I’d ever seen it before. Long before my usual bedtime, my batteries needed recharging, and I dozed. I must have, because I came awake with a start when the bang came. Bang… it was more of a crash. Or a crash bang. From outside somewhere.

When I turned on the tactical flash, Brute was standing on the couch, looking out the west window. “Yap!” he barked. Then he followed with some yips before hopping off the sofa and going to stand on his hind legs at the window. I was right on his heels, but the glass reflected back in my eyes, so I killed the flashlight. As soon as I recovered my night vision, I saw a bluish glow coming from the potato field my dad left fallow this season.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Brute answered with a bunch of yips and yaps.

Before long, curiosity won out over fright, and I pulled on a jacket against a night colder than it oughta be and took the flashlight outside on the front porch, Brute hard on my heels. The storm had passed but lightning still played in the distance. Peering through the moonless night, I made out something big and indistinct in the far field. The glow came from there. I couldn’t be sure, but there seemed to be shapes moving around in the blue light. Maybe someone needed help. But who? There ought not be anyone in our potato field. The only thing I could think of was an airplane crash.

With a glance at the boiling clouds overhead, I abandoned the porch and walked through a stiff headwind toward the distant glow. I hadn’t even reached the edge of the yard before I came to a dead stop. Something in the windbreak line of elms caught my eye. A shape. Like a man… sort of. My heart went crazy when he moved forward. Brute went down on his forelegs, his rear end in the air, and growled.

The hair on my neck prickled when the thing—it sure wasn’t a man—made a noise like a cricket, except a lot louder.

I managed to get my words out without stuttering. “Who’s there?”

“Who’s there?” came back at me.

“I-I’m Tommy Schmidt. I live here.”

“I-I’m Tommy Schmidt. I live here,” the thing said.

“No, you’re not! I’m Tommy.”

“No, you’re—”

“Stop that!” I yelled. Freaked, I switched on the flashlight, but in my excitement, I set it to strobing, surprising me as much as it did the man… the thing. The flickering light exposed a big head and huge eyes over two holes where a nose should have been. The next blink of light showed the thing’s head wrinkling, like it was collapsing. With a horrible shriek, the creature fell to the ground and lay still.

“Good Lord, Almighty, what happened?” I muttered aloud.

I about jumped out of my boots when another voice came back at me. “Good Lord, Almighty, what happened?”

Brute was halfway back to the house before I had time to swing the strobing light to another big-headed, pale man… creature… thing, who flung hands or claws to his face as his head seemed to collapse too.

Other shapes moved, but they seemed to be retreating. So did I, catching up with Brute on the front steps. We almost tripped one another getting through the door. I slammed it, latched it, and for good measure, lowered the bar that Dad had installed when we had a rash of robberies in the area a year back to hold it fast. Then I locked the back door—wishing it had a bar too—and latched all the windows, closing the curtains as I did so.

After that, I fell on the couch and held a terrified Schnauzer tight against my chest until my heart quit thumping and some of the panic ebbed.

“What were those things?” I asked aloud. Brute didn’t bother to answer, he just burrowed deeper into my armpit.

Fear shrank and curiosity grew. I got off the couch and went to the west window. Pulling the curtain aside enough to peek outside, I saw that blue glow in the distance. Then something blotted out the light, and I made out the faint shape of a creature’s head right outside the glass pane. Except I couldn’t see the big eyes. Something was covering them.

Giving a yelp that matched Brute’s yip, I dropped the curtain and ran back to the couch, curling into a ball and clutching a shivering dog close against me.

*****

Ain’t that a fine kettleof fish… uh, aliens. Not sure how I’d have handled this as a ten-year-old. Let’s see how Tommy does in next week’s post.

 

Stay safe and stay strong.

 

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 

My personal links:

 

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 

See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.