Garlic and Crosses and Silver Backed Mirrors (Part 1 of 3 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #637

 Image Courtesy of Dreamstime:

 

Here we go with another short story this week, also a two-parter. Hope you get a kick out of it.

 

                                                                         ****

GARLIC AND CROSSES AND SILVER BACKED MIRRORS

The thing—whatever it was—first made its presence felt when I was out hunting in the woods. We lived so close to Indian Territory, it was hard to tell if we were trespassing on tribal lands or not. But the Indian troubles were mostly behind us, so Pa said it was of no concern to us, so long as we didn’t go hostile on them. Me, I worried about the other way… them going hostile on us.

I said I first noticed the thing when I was hunting. And I don’t know what to call it other than the thing. I’d never even seen what was creeping me out. I wasn’t normally a scaredy-cat, but when a man can’t understand his surroundings, it tends to worry on the mind.

The other day as I worked the fields close to the wood line, I felt it, as well. Didn’t see it this time either, just sensed something there, and heard noises like a twig on the forest floor cracking or a swish of leaves. And some shadowy movement through the trees and underbrush. That was enough to tell me I wasn’t spooking out over nothing.

Pa didn’t make anything of it when I told him about it at the supper table that evening, just said to keep my eyes open. Ma, who’s got some Middle Eastern European blood looked at it differently.

“You be careful you don’t tangle with a vampire.”

“No vampires over here in the American territories,” Pa came back at her.

“How you know this?” When my ma got excited, sometimes her English slipped. “They no law against it.”

That was her measure for everything. “No law against it.” She sure had more faith in the law than I did.

“Maybe it’s a werewolf,” my little sister Sara put in.

“Don’t start that nonsense,” Pa said with a slap on the table. “Now Suzie B.”—that’s what my pa called Ma—“you know full well such creatures don’t roam around in the daylight hours, if they even exist.”

“They exist all right. My uncle Vanya fell victim to one. Found him dead in his workshop with every drop of blood drained. Besides, the woods are dark. No sunlight gets through that tangled mess.”

“That’s true,” Pa acknowledged.

Ma pointed a dinner fork at me. “Jamey, you don’t set foot outside this house without some protection.”

“What kinda protection.”

“Garlic. That’s the best.”

“That stinky stuff?” I asked. “I’ll smell to high heaven.”

Put up with the smell and the heart keeps beating. Without blood, heart doesn’t beat. I make a necklace tonight. You wear it when you go to work in the fields tomorrow.”

“Aw—”

“Don’t you aw me, James Herrickson. Somewhere I’ve got some mirror buttons with silver backing. I’ll weave them into the necklace. Wish I had a crucifix.

“We’ve got a wooden cross,” Sara said.

“Have to make do with that.”

My mood plunged. Wish I hadn’t mentioned the thing. “Hope I don’t see anyone I know.”

Sara giggled. “Especially that Nixton girl. She’ll hold her nose and run the other way.”

“Hush up,” Ma said.

That gave me something else to worry about. Did garlic and that other stuff repel girls too? Seemed like it was hard enough to sidle up to one of them without stinky and glittery stuff chasing them off. And Nettie Nixton was morphing into quite a juicy plum.

Sara intruded on my introspection. “What if it’s not a vampire? What if it’s a werewolf? They wouldn’t have any trouble running around in the daytime.”

“That’s okay,” Ma said. “The Germans, they don’t believe it, but my people, they know the garlic works on werewolves too. On vampires and werewolves and devils.”

I took a hard look at Ma. She was as educated as a woman got in the 1850s, yet here she was carrying on over creatures that didn’t even exist. I hid a grin. She was a pleasing woman to look at. I took some pride in the fact people said I looked like her… but in a manly way, they always added in a hurry. I did have her red-gold hair and eyes that weren’t quite green or weren’t quite brown. And her mouth, everyone said. Full and pouty. Pouty? Why was that supposed to be good. I snickered to myself. For pouting, I guess.

****

I made a good stab at it, but I didn’t escape the house without a necklace of garlic cloves and shiny buttons firmly around my neck, accompanied by a little cross carved out of oak and stained brown hung on a string.

By the time Cloppy—that’s our plow horse—and I reached the edge of our property line near the timber, I kinda liked the smell of the garlic and got a kick out of the way the mirrored buttons caught the sun and sent sparks of reflected light dancing over the mare’s rump. Didn’t get a blessed thing out of the cross, not even inspiration.

I stopped to swipe my face with the red bandana that hung out of my overall’s rear pocket. Normally, I wore it around my neck, but it would cover up the paraphernalia Ma had hung there. That gave me a pause, I can tell you. Did that mean I believed her rant about vampires and werewolves? Nah.

Then I went still as our old setter when she was pointing at quail. There was something there. Something in the underbrush near the fence. Dunno how I knew, I just did. That thing was back. Goose bumps raced up my spine, and I went cold all over.

“Hey!” I yelled, mostly to make noise. “Show yourself. I know you’re there.”

Nothing. Then I heard a twig crack.

“Hey you! Whatever you are, you don’t walk out where I can see you, I’m gonna come looking for you.”

Crap! Did I really say that out loud. I wasn’t about to enter those woods. Not by myself. Not without my rifle. Oh, hell. Why hadn’t I brought my rifle?

I squared my shoulders. Why not? Why not go see what was there. I had all the protection Ma could give me hanging right there around my neck. So, fighting another wave of chill bumps and a certain weakness in my knees, I dropped the reins, picked up one of the rocks I was always throwing out of the field, and marched toward the wire fence.

The bush swayed again.

“All right, you bastard, I’m coming, and I’m armed with a rock I’m gonna use to smash your fangs right outta your head.”

Nothing as I reached the fence.

Nothing as I slipped through the wire.

Nothing as I entered the woods… except the pounding of my heart.

 

****

Sure hope Jamey’s not biting off more than he can chew… or perhaps the bite will be on the other teeth… or fangs… or whatever.

 Did you ever have Old World aunts and uncles or grandparents tell you spooky stories from the old country when you were growing up? Did you believe them... maybe just a little bit?

Until we meet next week, stay safe and stay strong.

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

Please check out my BJ Vinson murder series published by Dreamspinner Press. The Zozobra Incident is the first, but Bisti Business is my favorite.

My personal links:

Email: dontravis@aol.com

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

X: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

Don

New Posts every Thursday at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain Time

Roberto Denofrio Kelly (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #635

Images Courtesy of Vecteezy:

 

I

don’t know about you, but I’m curious about what lies behind Roberto Denofrio Kelly’s lucrative offer to Bryce. Put up nothing but your name and reputation and receive a lucrative remuneration. Sounds like the deal I’m always hunting for.

 

I know the post is long, but stay with me to see what happens.

 

                                                                         ****

ROBERTO DENOFRIO KELLY

After telling Bobo I’d mull over his proposition, I did some digging around and learned what he’d told me was essentially correct. While a new license would cost no more than five grand or so, very few were issued each year, and likely only to those with political clout. Once issued, that little piece of paper was instantly worth around half a mil. And they were leasable. For a pretty good price. Since my alimony payments were fixed, not based on income, I could pocket the entire proceeds, after sharing them with the IRS and the New Mexico tax authority.

The more I looked, the more attractive the deal became. Of course, there was one little problem. It wasn’t my funds that would pay for the license. And under the law, you usually couldn’t do indirectly what you couldn’t do directly. So if Bobo couldn’t legally buy the license, how could his funds be used to purchase one? And I certainly wasn’t about to obligate myself to him or anyone else for that kind of money.

Or would I? More and more, I found myself reviewing the assets that remained after the plundering my ex-wife’s lawyer had given them. Could I raise the money? I had some stock and bonds. I had a good reputation and credit rating. Maybe I could leverage them and borrow enough to handle the deal.

But did I know Roberto Denofrio Kelly well enough to take that kind of risk? We were friends, but I’d been in Albuquerque less than a year, so it was still a shallow relationship.

With that thought in mind, I set about sticking my nose into his business, asking question of friends and business associates. I checked police records, tax records, Better Business Bureau, other bar owners, the Alcohol and Gaming Division, and even managed to meet his pastor at a function and discretely mention I knew a member of his flock.

What emerged was the picture of an upstanding citizen anyone should be proud to be associated with. But—and there was a but—everyone I talked to, except his pastor, left a “but” hanging in the air. Nothing said. Only an attitude. When pressed, they stuck to their stated facts.

At the end of it, I was still undecided. So I started dropping by Roberto’s more frequently. Bobo always came over to say hello and stay for a chat. He mentioned his proposition occasionally but didn’t push. He probably knew what I was doing… background work. I met the kid he intended to make the manager of his new place, a stunningly handsome and aggressively macho Peruvian immigrant named Tonio Malvan. I wasn’t sure he was appropriate for such a position until I watched him work the room. He was welcomed at every table and booth whether occupied by beer-swilling sports fans or prim Long Island Tea-sipping ladies.

Bobo slipped onto the stool beside me. “You here to accept my offer?”

“Getting closer, but not there.”

“Need an answer. Costing me money to hold onto the North Valley location.”

“Pretty well answered my technical questions,” I said. “But one thing’s bothering me.”

“And that is?”

“Why me? You know Joe and Brimley a lot longer than me. Why not one of them? Or did you go to them and get turned down?”

“Came to you first. And for one reason. I know you went through a divorce a year back that cleaned you out. Still, you’ve got a good reputation and a sterling credit rating. You’re well regarded in law circles.” He poked a thumb at me. “You’re the ideal candidate.”

“Checked me out, have you?”

“About as thoroughly as you’ve checked me out. How do I stack up?”

I paused a moment. “A-Okay.”

Bobo was a sharp cookie. “I sense a little hesitation there? Let me tell you what you found. Nobody had a bad word to say about me, not even my competition. But they left you with a question in the air. Am I right?”

“Right on point.”

He nodded. “Okay, let’s reason this out. I’m in the liquor business. The liquor business gets a bum rap in this state. Still carries an odor around with it from the old days when the mob was deep in it. Carryover from prohibition. As for my competition, they can’t find a damned thing to say bad about me, so they just let a facial expression or a question mark hanging in the air do the job for them.”

“Okay. Fair enough. So clear something else up for me. Who’s putting up the money for the license, and how do they get paid?”

“I’m springing for it. You’ve got no obligation at all.” He grinned at me. “And in the normal world, I’d cut your lease fee in half and consider I was doing you a favor. But this is the highly regulated liquor world we’re talking about here, so you get the full ride.”

“And now we’re at the nub of it. I’m a lawyer, Roberto, schooled in the proposition you can’t do indirectly what you can’t do directly.”

He frowned. “Are you kidding me? Happens every day in and out of the law profession.”

I thought for a moment. “You separately incorporating the North Valley operation?”

Bobo nodded. “Yeah.”

“Give me the papers so I can look them over.”

“I’ll send you the info. Okay?”

“Sounds fine.”

****

The first wrinkle came when I received the incorporating papers he sent me. Papi’s Inc. didn’t mention Roberto Denofrio Kelly anywhere. I recognized Tonio Malvan’s name as president, but not any of the others. Nor did Bob’s wife show up anywhere. Off putting to say the least.

Then there was that name. Papi’s. I didn’t speak a lot of Spanish, but I’d heard the word used as a term of affection for men. Was this going to be a gay bar? Did I care? Not really. Just because it wasn’t my cup of tea wasn’t any reason to go ballistic over it.

But that plus the absence of Bobo’s fingerprint on the deal put the pause on my enthusiasm. The next time I was in Roberto’s  I swiped the shot glass Tonio placed on the coaster in front of me at the bar. A friend at Albuquerque PD came back to me with some interesting information.

Tonio Malvan wasn’t Tonio Malvan at all. He was a character named Antonio Galveis y Humberto, a forty-year-old with good genes and a bad record. Convicted of burglary, assault, and indecent exposure in Lima. Worse yet, manslaughter in Cusco. He’d spent a good part of his life in one prison or the other.

Did that bother me? Well, yeah, both as a lawyer and as a human being. Was Bobo aware of his protégé’s background? If so, what did that say about him? Nah, he couldn’t know. He wouldn’t make a half a million dollar bet on such a shady character.

So that evening, I stopped by Roberto’s after work. Tonio looked—I dunno—somehow more sinister. Still, as I watched him work the room, I couldn’t help but admire the way he interfaced with his customers. I mentally shook my head. That was surface. What lay beneath was what counted.

Therefore, when Bobo plopped down at my side, I confided what I knew.

His steady gaze right into my eyes before he spoke disconcerted me somewhat. “Is that right?”

What did that mean. Had he known? I took a guess. “Take it you knew all about Tonio’s background. You wouldn’t gamble on him unless you checked him out from top to bottom.”

The green eyes fell away. “Yeah, I know all about him. Don’t you believe in giving a guy a second chance?”

“Looks to me like this one’s been given several.”

Bobo shrugged. “He’s clean up here. And he’s good with the customers.”

“Until he assaults one of them.”

“Been plenty of times somebody’s got rowdy, and Tonio’s handled it okay.”

“Bobo, you may be willing to take a risk on him, but I’m not. I’m gonna pass.”

He shook his head. “You need to think about that. This deal will put a lot of green on your plate.”

That comment made my mind up for me. “No thanks, It’s not for me.”

****

Roberto Denofrio Kelly dropped off my radar after that. He stopped coming to our rat pack get togethers, and I stopped going to his bar. In a weird sort of way, it bothered me. I knew he still saw the other guys, but in time I recognized it would have remained awkward between us and accepted the situation.

Papi’s opened within three months of my last meeting with Bobo. I avoided the opening, although the other went. I couldn’t help but wonder who fronted for the license, but wasn’t interested enough to probe into it.

A year to the day of my last meeting with Roberto Denofrio Kelly, I opened the Albuquerque Journal to devour with my coffee and bagel to find headlines screaming at me.

Prominent local lounge owner arrested.

Local attorney apparently involved in scheme.

According to the article, Papi’s was a front for moving large quantities of liquor to a couple of shady outlets. Apparently, under New Mexico liquor control laws, it was illegal to resell large quantities of alcohol to parties at a fixed price. I didn’t understand the mechanics of the thing, but somehow it involved avoiding taxes on alcohol.

What really hit me between the eyes was that my buddy, Joe, had apparently fronted for the Papi license, and was now ensnared—innocently or otherwise—in the case.

Damn Roberto Denofrio Kelly to Hell and back twenty times!

 

****

Well there it is. That fishy smell can sometimes save a guy a lot of headaches if he pays attention to it. Hope you enjoyed the story.

Until we meet next week, stay safe and stay strong.

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

Please check out my BJ Vinson murder series starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with The Cutie Pie Murders.

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com

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

X: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

Don

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

Roberto Denofrio Kelly (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #635

 Image Courtesy of Vecteezy:

 

Last week Monday met Wednesday and Friday, and they got something going together.

 

This week, a totally different tone. Hope you enjoy it.

 

                             

****

ROBERTO DENOFRIO KELLY

Anyone else would introduce himself as Robert or Bob Kelly, but not Roberto Denofrio Kelly. You got the full moniker every time. And to top off matters, if you used the familiar with him, he insisted on Bobo.

“If my proper Christian name is Roberto, not Robert, then my proper nickname is Bobo, not Bob,” he endlessly explained.

Roberto always had a flair for the dramatic, so this affectation should have come as no surprise. It was easier to tack on the “O” than to argue with him. But I had to get back at him… just a little bit.

“Well, my name’s properly Bryson Charles Haggerty, but it’s okay if you call me Bryce.”

He’d been a part of the social set I ran with long before I moved to Albuquerque, so putting up with him was a must if I wanted to hang with the others. I often wondered how his wife Estelle put up with him, but she was a mousy thing who seemed to let a lot of things sail right over her head… which was probably the answer to my question.

My friends threw me a birthday party—the first one in my new habitat—at my house this past week. Wasn’t a surprise. They’d openly planned it for a couple of weeks. I had the grace to be born in late June so we were able to grill steaks and eat a decorated cake on the patio. Joe the Jock—probably my closest friend since we worked in the same law firm—and his wife Francine, Brimley the intellectual—appropriately a professor of history at UNM—and his wife Nancy, and the Kelly couple laughed and joked with me for two solid, pleasant hours. I was solo since I’d moved here last year from back east following the termination of an unhappy marriage.

Did I fail to mention Bobo owned a popular neighborhood bar not surprisingly called “Roberto’s?” So naturally, there was a surplus of alcohol at the party. Joe got snockered, which was unfortunate because he had a court date at ten the next morning. Brimley drank steadily, but booze seemed to have no effect on him. Bobo didn’t drink more than the birthday toast. I guess being around alcohol so much left him looking for other outlets. Oh, I exaggerate. He usually had a glass in his hand or on a nearby table at the party, but I seldom saw him sip from it. Me, I simply got pleasantly looped. I had neither a drive home nor a morning court date, so I was okay.

The ladies pretty well stuck to their end of the patio, gossiping among themselves, except for the occasion foray to our end to say hello or plant a peck on an appropriate cheek, including mine as the birthday boy.

As agreed, the gifts were minor and jocular—an awful, psychedelic tie that would never adorn my neck, a pair of equally scandalous socks—but Bobo handed over a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Laphroaig Scotch that must have cost five hundred bucks. Despite my protest it was too much, he refused to take it back. So I popped the cork and allowed my guests to partake of the excellent whiskey or whisky—Bobo informed us that while Scotch is whiskey, it’s whiskey without the e. Hey, I’m a lawyer, so I know the law. He’s a barman, so he knows his whisky. However you spell it, it was outstanding, and probably wasted on that lot.

****

A week later, I returned home from the office at the same time Bobo pulled up in front of the house in his Mercedes. We met on the sidewalk and shook hands.

“Bobo,” I acknowledged him, trying not to smirk as I did so.

“Bryce,” he accordingly responded. “Glad I caught you. Wanted to talk a little business if you’ve got the time.”

“Business? Isn’t the place for that in the office.”

He shook his head. “Not law office business. Business between you and me.”

Curious, I waved. “Come on in, and I’ll serve you a drink of twenty-five year-old Scotch some generous soul gave me.”

We mentioned the beautiful weather and the state of the union and other tidbits while I poured. Then we took seats in my den.

As he settled himself into an easy chair across from me, it dawned on me he was a good-looking man with an easy manner. Perfect for a lounge owner. He could put his customers at ease and in a drinking mood without breaking a sweat. “What can I do for you?” I probed.

“Appreciate it if we can keep this confidential. Just between us.”

I went on guard. “Sure, if I can. I mean—”

“I know what you mean. Shouldn’t be any problem.” He paused for a sip of his drink. “I’m not certain how much you know about New Mexico liquor laws.” He hesitated.

“Not much,” I filled in the pause. “My practice hasn’t rubbed up against the Alcohol and Gaming Division much so far.”

“Well, to put it succinctly, I’d like you to obtain a dispenser’s license. You get it, and I’ll lease it from you.”

“Why?”

“I want to open a new place.”

“You have a license.”

“Yes, but in New Mexico you can’t split licenses. Need one for each place of business. But you can lease them. That’s what I want to do.”

“Have your wife or son get one.”

“I don’t have children, and I don’t involve my wife in my business.”

“Not even as a place holder?”

“Not even as a place holder. Let me tell you what I have in mind. I’ve got a prime spot in the North Valley on hold. It’ll attract a totally different crowd from Roberto’s. I’ve got a young Latino on salary as my assistant manager. Bright young fellow in his thirties. Good at working with the crowd. Understands the business. He’ll manage it for me.”

“Then have him get the license.”

Bobo wrinkled his brow. “I’d rather risk half a million on a solid, reputable professional man.”

I felt my eyebrows climb. “It cost’s half a million dollars to get a license in this state?”

“Naw. Costs between five and ten grand, depending upon the type, but we’re limited to the number of licenses the state can issue, so that means new bars have to buy or lease existing licenses.”

“Where would I find one?”

“I’ve located one.

“Then lease it from the owner.”

“The old boy’s in his nineties. Doesn’t want to lease. Wants to sell, but I already own a license and can’t buy it. That’s where you come in. Interested.”

“I don’t have five-hundred thousand to invest.”

“Don’t have to. I’ve got it worked out. That way, your lease fee is pure profit.”

Both my interest and my antennae rose. My ex took a hell of a lot of my assets with her in the divorce… but for some reason this just didn’t seem right.

 

****

Smells fishy to me too, but the liquor license game has been going on in New Mexico for a long, long time, so I guess we shouldn’t rush judgment. Let’s let it play out 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!

Please check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with The Cutie-Pie Murders.

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. 

 

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, a Repost

 dontravis.com blog post #634

 Images Courtesy of ClipartMax.com:

 

Well, our nameless hero got his petty revenge on Graciela last week. Didn’t accomplish much except bring some satisfaction into his dim life, and that was worth something, right?

 Swore I wasn’t going to do this again, but the week got away from me—life intruding, you know—and I’m going to repost a story again. This one was originally published on May 8, 2018, and it’s one I forgot about and rediscovered. I like it. I hope you do too.

 

                                                                         ****

MONDAY, WEDNESDAY, AND FRIDAY

I left the chapel following Charles Farrelson’s memorial service somewhat spiritually fractured. Chuck, thirty years my senior, had been both father figure and lover for the past five years. For at least 250 of the last 260 Wednesdays, he’d filled my afternoons with good food, sharp wit, and loving caresses. Yet the sorrow tugging at my heartstrings felt selfish. It seemed more centered on what was taken from me, rather than his life being snatched from him.

Feeling the need for nourishment, sustenance… something. I walked past the cars in the parking lot and struck out for the Famous Four Flavors ice cream shop across the street. A tall hunky guy I’d noticed at the service entered before me. I’d picked up on him not only because he was so handsome but also because he was Chuck’s son Drake.

Restraining the impulse to introduce myself, I fell in line behind him wondering how he’d feel about meeting his father’s gay lover. Once he collected his chocolate shake, I ordered a strawberry. Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I walked toward a nearby table until a deep baritone brought me to a halt.

“I noticed you at the service.” Drake indicated a chair. “Join me?”

When I was settled, he offered a handshake. “Hi, I’m Drake Barstow.”

I grasped his hand and frowned. “N-not Drake Farrelson?”

His eyebrows reached for his dark hairline. “No. Why would you think that?”

“I’ve seen you before. Last December, I saw you and Chuck leaving Dillards. I asked him later, and he said you were his son.”

His astonished look morphed into glee. “That old dog! Now let me guess. You’re not Carl, Chuck’s nephew. You see, I saw you with him once, too, at the University bookstore.

“I’m Carl, all right. But I’m not his nephew. I was… uh, a friend.”

“Yeah, a friend. What was your day?”

“My day?”

“When did you meet him? Was it on a special day of the week?”

“Well… yes. We got together for lunch or something every Wednesday.”

“Yeah, or something. I was Friday. That’s the day we got together for… something.”

“You… you mean you and Chuck…?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“For how long?”

“Ten years. I was eighteen when I met him. Got together with him every Friday after that except when one of us was out of town. And that wasn’t often, I can tell you.” He arched an eyebrow at me. “How long for you?”

“Five years. I was eighteen, too.”

“Apparently, that’s the age when we first grab his attention. But he was loyal, in his own way, I guess you could say. Outside of Chuck, what do you do?”

I felt my cheeks burn. “No one. It was just—”

“Sorry, that’s not what I meant. What do you do to keep a roof over your head?”

“I’m a commercial artist. You?”

“Photographer. And I’ll bet you’ve got as many intimate drawings as I have photographs.”

My cheeks really flamed then. “Uh, a few.”

“Yeah, I’ve got some scorchers, too.” His attention strayed from me to the front door of the shop. “Hang on, I think we’re about to meet Monday.”

I looked where his gaze was centered and saw the other individual who’d caught my attention at the memorial service. Impossibly young and blond, the kid was really cute.

“What makes you think—”

“Well, he’s not Chuck’s son or nephew, and probably not even a cousin. But he was at the service. What are the odds?”

We both watched the kid’s coltish, self-conscious carriage as he ordered a coke and then turned to glance uncertainly over the room. His eyes stopped on us before moving on.

“Have a chair,” Drake said.

With only a moment’s hesitation, the kid sat.

We identified ourselves and watched the newcomer’s reaction. His blue eyes skittered back and forth between us as he sank into a chair at the table.

“Confused?” Drake asked.

“Uh….”

“Well, I’m not Chuck’s son, and Carl’s not his nephew. Now let me make a couple of guesses about you. You’re what? About twenty or twenty-one?”

“Twenty.”

“Your name’s Jake and you met Carl about two years ago.

The kid seemed flustered. “That’s right. How did you know?”

“I saw you with Carl once at the Kimo. He told me your name later.”

“You saw us?”

 “Bound to happen sooner or later,” I said. “Albuquerque’s not that big of a town.”

Jake looked as if he was about to bolt.

“It’s okay,” Drake said. You’re among brethren.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is I’m Friday, Carl’s Wednesday, and I’ll bet you’re Monday.”

“I don’t know what you—”

“Come on, don’t play coy. You met Chuck for lunch and playtime every Monday, right?”

“I met him, yes, but—”

“Butt being the operative word. You got it on with him. We all did.

Now it was Jake’s turn to send his eyebrows northward. “You mean…?”

“Yep. That’s exactly what I mean. Old Chuck got his jollies every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday with us. Who knows, we might be why his heart failed. Hell, he wasn’t even fifty-five yet.”

That comment sat on the table for a moment while we all digested it. Then Drake took charge again.

“Now what we have to do is figure out the situation. You know” he turned pedantic. “Let not what Chuck sowed be put asunder!”

Jake and I blinked back at him for a moment before smiling.

“How do you know we’re compatible?” I asked.

Drake winked. “I’d bet on it.”

After raising a silent toast to our dear, departed Chuck, we put our heads together and started working out our Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

 ****

That story didn’t come out of any experience of mine. Reading it makes me wonder how my mind works, but I’ll not delve into that too deeply. At the turn of the year, I’ll try to do something original… although I am taking on a new project that’s going to demand a lot of my time. Hopefully, it’s productive in the end.

Until next week, stay safe and strong.

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

Please check out my seven BJ Vinson murder mystery books published by Dreamspinner Press.

My personal links:

Email: dontravis@aol.com

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

X: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

Don

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

Sometimes Things Turn Out All Right, a Repost

 dontravis.com blog post #633

 Images Courtesy of ClipartMax.com:

 

Hope you enjoyed last week’s story about Chuck the Rock and Perry the Brick. Today, I’ll wish everyone a Merry Christmas and happy Holiday Season and wimp out with a repost. I’ll blame it on the busy season, although I don’t know what my buddy Mark Wildyr will say because he told me he’s doing the same thing.

 

I first ran the following story on Thursday, August 14, 2014. I’ve not edited it a bit, so you can tell he how much my story-telling style has evolved. Enjoy.

 

                                                                         ****

SOMETIMES THINGS TURN OUT ALL RIGHT

I thought I’d die when she walked up to me. Guys aren’t supposed to admit things like that, but, man, that’s the way I felt. Part of it was surprise, and part of it was pure excitement.

Graciela (I never called her Gracie like everyone else) and I had a history that stretched back to grade school. We’d started out yanking hair and kicking shins, but that switched to lipping off to one another as we got older. But I went virtually mute the first time I noticed she had breasts. One day she was built pretty much like me and the next, these knobby little things popped out on her chest. Kinda hard holding a casual conversation while sneaking glances at those awkward protrusions.

The real transformation took place our freshman year in high school. Those knobs became balloons. Her rounded hips made my throat go dry. Imp-face became Pixie-face. Right about then, Graciela discovered boys. Not this boy. Not the schmuck next door, but guys older than me. Guys with shoulders and biceps and pecs and Adam’s apples.

I used to hang around hoping she’d notice me. I’d head for school at the same time she did. I went to school dances … which I loathed … just to see her dressed up like a movie star. And in the privacy of my bedroom at night, I did my best to render myself blind while holding onto a mental image of her. And felt unclean afterward.

My senior year I used some of my hard-earned savings and bought an old Ford, a jalopy like you saw in the Archie cartoons but without the rumble seat. Guys that hadn’t given me the time of day got to be buddies, but Graciela didn’t give me a second glance.

One warm, pleasant Saturday afternoon about one-thirty, I breezed through the front door heading for my car in the driveway. As I reached for the door handle, Graciela materialized beside me. Surprised me. Scared the crap out of me, actually.

“Johnny,” she cooed. Only person I knew who could speak and coo at the same time.

“Uh … oh, hi. Didn’t see you there.”

“I need a favor. Please.”

She had the prettiest “pleases” of anyone in town. “What’s that?”

“I need a ride to the mall.”

Our only mall, The Eastside Mall, was – guess what – on the east side of town. I’d intended to head in the opposite direction to meet a couple of the guys at the municipal swimming pool. But screw the guys.

As she settled in the front seat beside me, my mind’s eye saw us holding hands and exchanging glances as I drove down Henderson Drive. Me, a man in control of his powerful automobile, and she, the woman at my side. My starter ground, shattering the image. Nonetheless, I got the old jalopy started and backed out of the drive, almost clipping the mailman as I did so. Anxious for something to say in the face of near disaster, I cleared my throat as I followed her directions and parked as close to Dillard’s as possible.

“I can hang around and bring you back home, if you want.”

“That’s sweet. But I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she said.

“I don’t mind. I can just … you know, hang.”

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Who? Marcy?” She and Marcy were as different as night and day, but they were tight. “I wouldn’t mind having a pretty woman hanging off each arm.” Did I really say that out loud? My cheeks felt like they were on fire. They actually burned. I didn’t dare glance at her.

“Not Marcy. Well, thanks loads.” She tossed the words at me as she flounced out of the car and slammed the door.

By the time I got my voice-box to working she was walking down the sidewalk toward a dork named Freddy Fleisher. Last year’s fullback … this year’s freshman at the community college. All shoulders, biceps, thighs, and a real Adam’s apple. With hair on his legs, to boot.

When they hugged, I felt like something tore loose inside me. He planted a kiss on her lips before opening the car door for her.

I’d driven her to her date? Why didn’t he pick her up? My blood pressure dropped twenty points. I felt used. Like a taxi driver who got stiffed for the fare. I sat there like dog doo on the bottom of a shoe, my eyes watching the two-year-old Olds convertible fire up. Freddie revved the engine before throwing the transmission into Reverse.

Movement caught my eye. A vehicle motoring down the lane was invisible to the couple in the Olds because of an SUV parked on their right. Mr. Flannery, the same postman I’d almost nailed, was headed to the mall’s substation. I could probably have honked a warning, but I didn’t.

I expected a big crash when Freddie came roaring backwards out of the parking space but it was more of a thud and a crunch. Freddie must have been flustered – decidedly uncool – because he slammed the Olds in Drive and shot forward, smashing his front end into the Chevy parked on his left.

Graciela and Freddie piled out of the car, both talking a blue streak. What I got out of the rush of words was that Freddie was wrapped up in the wreck of his dad’s wheels, while she was bitching about being late for an appointment.

I took a deep breath, eased my jalopy in gear and rolled past the scene of the accident. As Gracie tried frantically to wave me to a stop, I gave her a casual salute and went on by. A swim with a couple of buddies – boring though they might be – seemed like a good idea right about then.

****

We all get petty now and then, don’t we. Can’t say I blamed him.

Until next week, stay safe and stay strong.

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

Please check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with The Cutie-Pie Murders. I may be biased, but I still think they’d make great Christmas gifts for the right person.

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 Rock and the Brick

 dontravis.com blog post #632

 Images Courtesy of IconScout and PNGkey:

 

After completing “Boy for Sale,” we have an inkling what private investigators go through in resolving their cases. Wonder if that’s really true? Do any of you know a PI who’d do something like that out of a sense of duty?

Today, we’ll have a piece of flash fiction. Hope you enjoy it.

                                                                          ****

THE ROCK AND THE BRICK

My buddy spelled his name C-H-U-C-K while his wife penned hers as J-U-D-I. Misspelled it is more like it. I know for a fact she was plain Judy back when she was in pigtails. And so far as I was concerned, that said everything about their union there was to say. Charles, known to one and all as Chuck, was biscuits and gravy with eggs-over-easy, while Judi was more Swiss rösti with smoked salmon. That pegged the two of them perfectly in the mental envelope of my mind. I’d predicted domestic problems from the beginning, but they defied my logic and seemed the perfect pair of love birds.

For three years.

The first apparent crack appeared six months ago when Chuck let his mouth get away from him when four of us were having our weekly boy’s night out at Steve’s Neighborhood Bar.

Chuck, Billy, Steve, and I had gone to high school together, split up to attend different colleges, and returned home to pursue careers. I’m Perry, by the way, but years ago high school sportscasters dubbed me Brick—for that fabled brick outhouse—and Brick I remain today. Chuck and I ended up in the same architectural firm, me as an architect, and him as a draftsman and surveyor. Billy operated a first-rate auto repair shop in town, and Steve owned the bar where we go to water once a week.

Anyway, this one night, Chuck bellyached about a dress Judi’d bought for an upcoming shindig at the office. A way-too-expensive, filmy thing he didn’t even think was appropriate. Of course, we needled him about being king of his own household, which didn’t improve his mood any.

Over the next week, he showed up at work late once, unshaven once, and grumpy the rest of the time. The office shindig at the country club proved to be a big success, and while Judi looked like a million dollars in a filmy, pink chiffon thing, I had to admit it was a bit over-the-top for one of our affairs.

The second clue came when Chuck showed up at my house one night and asked if he could spend the night on my couch. I told him I had a perfectly good second—or even—third bedroom, and he could have his choice of either. He hadn’t arrive until late, so neither of us felt like talking much. I offered sympathy because I’d gone through all this a year or so ago when my wife and I called it quits. I kept my house; she took my money and moved out of state. You’d think that would be an open invitation to glory in my new-found freedom and paint the town, but I chose to remain monastic and concentrate on restoring my financial solvency. My Ex was capable of earning as much as I was, so she took her pieces of my flesh in the form of cash. I wasn’t saddled with alimony, thank goodness.

The next morning, Chuck and I elected to have breakfast at a little diner we both favored. To make a point—we both had biscuits and gravy with eggs-over-easy. He wasn’t very forthcoming, tending to nurse his coffee afterward and husband his words. I did draw him out enough to understand his brother-in-law had showed up, stayed the weekend, and cajoled Judi out of five hundred dollars.

He kept his own counsel at work, so I did likewise and didn’t mention the incident. But Friday night at the bar, he let it all out to his three buddies. Seems like five hundred bucks wasn’t all of it. Chuck’s wife had given her brother her car and was now agitating for another. She’d never liked the Chevy she’d driven for the last three years. Wanted something fancier, of course. Perhaps earlier I should have used the simile, Chuck was Chevy while Judi was Cadillac to explain them. Except, she was demanding something foreign. A Jaguar, I think. Who knew? I’d never have pegged her for someone wanting anything to do with the jungle.

The upshot was that I now had a houseguest at least once a week. Chuck’s golf game went to pot so badly he had to quit betting with us… couldn’t afford the club membership and the losses. Before the summer was out, it was clear to me his marriage was heading the same direction mine had gone. To oblivion.

Chuck didn’t have my hindsight and continued to insist they were just going through a rough spot. Mighty big briar patch… better part of six months now. He’d forgiven the five hundred lost to his brother-in-law, found a used Jaguar for Judi, and expected things to settle down. Didn’t, of course, she’d wanted a new Jag. Since he was absolutely sure she wasn’t running around on him in her new, used car, he considered everything had worked out okay.

Yeah, right.

Football season had started before my doorbell rang at night again. I opened the door, waved him in and hurried back into the den and the television set. Nothing was said until one team called timeout.

“So what’s up, Chuck? You in the doghouse again, or did you come over to watch the game?”

He almost broke up, which made me regret my flip remark. “She’s leaving me, Brick. Told me so tonight.”

“She doesn’t mean it.”

Yeah, she does. Already leased a place. Showed me the contract.”

“Oh.” I swallowed all my “you’ll be better off” remarks and took a good look at my friend. And he was my friend. My best… my closest buddy in the world. When we were teenagers, I’d had a crush on him. I would’ve been his slave, done anything he’d wanted, if he’d simply arched an eyebrow. From fifteen to seventeen, that is. I was seventeen when I met my future wife, and that changed everything.

The rest of the ballgame was lost, my time taken up commiserating with my buddy in his time of trouble. Didn’t offer advice. Knew from my own experience that advice wasn’t what he needed at the moment. Time for that later. He just needed sympathy. Empathy. Someone to be there for him.

Then he lost control. I’d seen Chuck grit his teeth at a broken ankle, take a brutal kidney punch in a teenage brawl, and let someone put a dislocated shoulder back in place, all without so much as anything beyond a groan. Never seen the guy shed a tear over anything.

Until tonight.

When the dam burst, I instinctively scooted over on the couch beside him and draped my arm around his shoulders. For fifteen minutes, I sat—semi-holding my best friend—while he hemorrhaged tears and words. Half the words so slurred I don’t know what they were. Eventually, the words ran out, but the tears didn’t. He turned into me and buried his head in my neck. I held him, not daring to move, for a long time. Well, probably wasn’t over a minute, but seemed like half an hour.

When he finally spoke again, the words were muffled.

“Thanks, guy… you know, for being a friend. D-didn’t mean to fall apart on you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, patting his back fondly.

“Must seem like a pussy,” he snuffled, his lips tickling my neck.

“Nah. Seem like the same old Rock of Gibraltar to me.”

That had been what the announcer called him when he was a lineman on our high school football team. We’d been the Rock and the Brick.

“Quivering puddle of jelly’s more like it.”

Chuck, you’re more man than anyone I know,” I said.

“R-really? Hope for me yet?”

“You got lots of good times ahead of you. Better ones than with Judi,” I quipped, stressing the y that belonged on the end of her name. “You’ve got adventures you’ve thought about for years to explore, experiences you’ve only dreamed about—”

I lost the ability to speak when his lips suddenly covered mine. Surprised, shocked, I started to push him away, but relented.

Oh, what the hell! Might as well see what I missed back when I was sixteen.

 

****

It isn’t often we get to relive our sixteenth year, is it? Wonder how Brick enjoyed it.

Until next week, stay safe and stay strong. 

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

In case you haven't done so lately, please take a look at my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with The Cutie Pie Murders. Perhaps one of the seven books might make a good Christmas present for someone you know.  There are also three standalone books.

My personal links: 

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

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

X: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

 

 Don

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

 

Boy For Sale (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #631

 Image Courtesy of Way Up Gifts:

 

So last week, we saw Colin Ragner, who obviously dislikes gays, arranging to buy a boy from a young, blond, obviously gay man called Kevin Tolliver. What’s up with that?

 

Let’s find out.

 

                                                                  

****

BOY FOR SALE

Colin was a patient man, but Kevin Tolliver wore it to a frazzle by dawdling over dinner, and dessert, and an after-dinner drink. What was that kid Barton doing while they were wasting time here. He wanted to pay for the goods and then depart with the “package,” nothing more or nothing less.

He mentally shook himself. Settle down. Barton will be just as good later as he is now. So play this weirdo’s game.

And a game it was, with frequent intimate touches on the arm, leaning forward and laughing intimately, and occasionally dropping the voice to a whisper. Lots of raucous laughter that brought eyes of everyone in the joint to their table.

Abruptly, Tolliver swept to his feet—he apparently didn’t get up and sit down like everyone else, he did it dramatically. “Ready? Let’s go to your place,” the blond said loudly enough for most of the room to hear.

Colin stood, placed his napkin on the table, snatched the bill, and headed for the cashier, muttering his hotel room number to his tormentor. Buying a boy from some creep shouldn’t be so involved. Hand over the money, get the boy and go, that’s how it should be. And that’s all it would be from now on. The games were over.

Colin turned over his car for valet parking and strode into the lobby of the Manchester Hotel feeling as if he looked like the fool he felt. He’d lost control of the situation, something he should never have allowed to happen. As he entered the elevation, he muttered the words he should have said in the first place, “Pony up, buster, or I’m gone.” He took his irritation out on the button calling for the fourth floor.

He'd barely shed his coat before the expected knock came. He admitted Tolliver, turning his back on him insolently and striding into the room.

Kevin Tolliver glanced around. “Nice. Make a nice love nest.”

“I wouldn’t know. Let’s get down to business.”

“My, my, impatient, aren’t we? You’re not even going to offer me a libation?”

“You’ve libated on all of my time you’re going to.” Colin reached under a table and brought out a thick envelope. “Fifty thousand, like we agreed.”

Tolliver accepted the package. “You won’t mind if I count it, will you.”

“Count it, and then let’s get going.”

“You’re really hot for this kid, aren’t you?” the blond said.

“Stop the sleaze talk and start counting.”

“You’re beginning to sound like you don’t enjoy my company. Oh, well, let’s complete our business.”

The room was silent for the next few minutes as Tolliver counted the money… twice. Finally he looked up. “Looks like it’s all here.”

“Great. Where’s the kid?”

“I’ve decided to up the ante,” Tolliver said. “I want something else.”

“A deal’s a deal. The James family isn’t all that wealthy. You should have kidnapped a bigger fish if you wanted more money.”

“Oh, the money’s quite adequate. It meets my needs quite adequately. But you’ve been so insolently charming, I want something else.”

“If not money, what?”

“You.”

Colin’s eyebrows shot up. Revulsion crawled up his spine. “Me? No way, you slime ball. You’re not putting your hands on me.”

“Oh, it’s not my hands I want to put on you, sweetie. Look at it this way, you can just lie back and enjoy it, and the James family gets their darling boy back no worse for the wear. Or we can go to war and somebody gets hurt.”

“Meaning you.”

“Possibly, but what about poor Barton. He might not come out of this so well, either. Why make it hard? Just give me what I want. After all, it is your fault, you know.”

“Mine? How in the hell is it my fault.”

Tolliver smiled, dimpling his left cheek. “Well, first… you’re much hunkier than I expected. Downright sexy. And second, you’ve been sort of rude to me. Not overtly, but still quite dissing. So I want payback. And I can’t imagine any payback more distasteful to you.”

“You’re a real bastard, you know that, don’t you,” Colins said between clenched teeth. “How do I even know you’ve got the kid.”

“Oh, I’m prepared for that. Proof of life, isn’t that what they call it?” Tolliver took out his phone and poked some buttons. A moment later, he spoke into the mouthpiece. “Hi, doll. Yeah, took longer than I thought. He insisted we have dinner first. Oh, yeah, he’s dishy. You’d eat him up. Remember, we’re on face time. I’m going to hand the phone to him, you point it at dear Barton. Don’t say anything, and don’t show your face. Might want to have Barton move so our private investigator knows he’s alive. Then terminate the call. Understood?”

A moment later, he handed the little instrument to Colin. After some dizzying movement, a youth lying naked on a bed came into focus Anxiety was evident in the features, but they were handsome, nonetheless. Good definition of the body. No gag, but the eyes had a vacant look. Drugged, most likely.

“Barton, are you okay?” Colin demanded.

The boy started, then nodded and muttered something that sounded like “Kay.”

Tolliver snatched the phone back and killed the call. “Satisfied?”

“Yeah.”

“Now, let’s satisfy me.”

Colin gritted his teeth. Why the hell not? He’d done some screwy things while ransoming kidnap victims before, but none as screwy as this.

With a sigh, he tore off his shirt.

 ****

Aha, so Colin’s a private investigator paid to ransom the Jones family’s kidnapped son and heir, Barton. Wonder how the kid got himself in that kind of jam? Some sort of a gay threesome with the wrong people? Who knows… but we can imagine all sorts of scenarios, can’t we?

 Until next week, stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it! And for those of you who also read Mark Wildyr’s blog, don’t forget it was my mantra first!

Please check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with The Cutie-Pie Murders. I may be biased, but I think they’d make great Christmas gifts for the right person.

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.