Pauly Pittman and the Pit Bull (Part2 of 3 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #640

Image Courtesy of Vector Portal:

 

Let’s see what happens with Pauly Pittman and the mysterious pit bull today.

 

****

PAULY PITTMAN AND THE PIT BULL

Pauly glanced over his shoulder, but Billy was on the other side of the room. Mr. Hasterton had separated them at the first of the year when they wouldn’t quit whispering to one another. He looked back at the tree again, halfway expecting the dog to be gone, but there it was, as still as a statue made out of poured plaster.

A stern voice brought him back to class. “Mr. Pittman, I asked you a question.” Mr. Hasterton always called his students Mr. This and Miss That when he was irritated with them.

“Uh…”

“Please give me the answer to question number two on the blackboard.”

Why did he always call it a blackboard when it was as green as it could be?

“Uh… False.”

“Correct. Now tell me why.

By the time Pauly finished the verbal dance Mr. Hasterton orchestrated for him, he glanced out the window. The dog was gone.

****

“A pit bull you say?” his father asked after he mentioned the mysterious dog at the dinner table that night. “Around here?”

“Well, it was at the bus stop this morning. And I saw it again at school.” Should he mention Billy Bills’ shapeshifter? Nah.

“You catch it around here again, you let me know. We got enough coyotes chasing our chickens. Don’t need a rogue dog too.”

“How do you know it’s rogue?”

“You ever see it before?”

“No, sir.”

“Belong to anybody you know?”

“No, sir.”

“Me neither. Don’t know of a soul around here who’s got a pit bull. Do you?”

“No, sir.”

“There you go then. Rogue dog. You see it again, you let me know, and I’ll take my shotgun to it.”

The hair on Pauly’s neck stood up… but he didn’t know why.”

****

The mysterious pit bull didn’t show up again, making Pauly ponder if he was glad or sad. He liked the idea of a dog. They hadn’t had one on the farm since Nosy, their golden retriever died a year ago. He’d mentioned a pet to his father a couple of times, and while his dad didn’t say no, nothing ever developed. Would a pit bull make as good a pet as old Nosy. Take a whale of a dog to replace that one, for sure.

And he’d heard things about a bull. Mean. Vicious. Turn on their owners without provocation. But was that true? He’d never had a pit bull. Didn’t even know anyone who had. And that raised another question. Where had this one come from? He’d never seen one in these parts. Maybe he got loose from someone passing through. Yeah, that made sense. Somebody mean who mistreated his dog—heck, his whole family. Well, coulda been that way.

Curious, he cut lunch short one day and headed to the computer room at school and learned the dogs were developed in England, Scotland, and Ireland in the 1900s as hunting dogs, and some said as herding dogs. Would one herd the chickens to him a feeding time. Course, they didn’t need herding. Step outside and yell “Cluck, cluck, cluck,” and they came running like they hadn’t been fed for weeks. But the pigs now. That was another matter. When one of them got loose, it took a lot of herding.

From everything he read, they made good family dogs and good with children when trained properly. Properly trained. What did that mean? Maybe they got a raw deal… being called vicious, that is. Everything he learned just made him more anxious to see the animal again.

But he didn’t. Until one morning, he spied the dog standing in the tree line across the road from Pauly’s school bus stop. His heart skipped a beat. Why? Everything he’d read said the dogs were friendly. And why did this one seem to hang around him? Had the dog chosen him as his new owner? Pauly wrinkled his nose. That was a new thought. Getting picked by a dog instead of the other way around.

Where did the animal live? In the wild? What did he eat? Small prey. He was a predator. That thought sent a tingle down Pauly’s back. Well, the dog had to eat something.

He stooped down and clapped his hands. “Come on, boy. Come on.”

Pauly spent five minutes cajoling the dog, drawing him closer and closer until the school bus came over the hill and spooked the animal away. Darn, he’d been so close.

****

That afternoon, Pauly’s dad picked him up at school. He’d had to stop at the feed store and do another couple of chores and decided to spare his son a ride on the bus and the short walk from the stop. As they drove toward the farm, his father spoke.

“That dog showed up again.”

“Dog?” he asked as his insides quickened.

“Your pit bull. Ralph down at the café chased him away from the back of his place. Rooting for food, I guess. And Joe saw him in the alley behind the grocery store.”

So maybe he was a scavenger instead of a predator. Pauly wrinkled his nose. Most likely both. He kept an eagle ye out, especially when they passed the school bus stop, but he didn’t see any sign of the animal.

When he fed the chickens that evening, a chill went up his back, and he didn’t understand why. Then he spotted the dog twenty feet away staring at him. No, it was staring at the chickens. Good grief, was he about to attack them? Probably make a good meal.

No, the animal shifted its gaze back to him. And the tail wagged a couple of times. Maybe it’d be all right.

Then his dad came barreling out of the kitchen door, shotgun in hand, roaring, Damned chicken thief.”

No, Dad! Wait.”

But the bull turned tail and headed for the hinterlands, followed by my dad’s buckshot.

“Damn, missed!” he swore.

 ****

Is Pauly ever going to meet that pit bull properly? Sure looks like all the cards are stacked against him. And why’s he hanging around so much? Let’s see how it ends next week.

 See you 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 the Don Travis mystery series, a series of seven novels starting with The Zozobra Incident.

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com

X: @dontravis3

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

See you next Thursday

Don

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

Pauly Pittman and the Pit Bull (Part 1 of 3 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #639

 Image Courtesy of Vector Portal:

 

Hope you enjoyed the conclusion of last week’s “Garlic and Crosses and Silver Backed Mirrors.” Had fun writing it.

 

Today, we have the first installment of another three par short story. Without further ado, let’s get to the story.

 

****

PAULY PITTMAN AND THE PIT BULL

Pauly first noticed the dog late in the school year when the worst of the winter was behind them—except for tricks Jack Frost still had in store for them—but before the spring winds really warmed things. Up on the county road waiting the school bus to come, Pauly noticed an animal sitting on his haunches eyeballing him from across the road. When the flesh on his back quit goose pimpling, he recognized it as a dog, not some wild creature come to claim him as a meal. Unless it was a mad dog. Was this the time of year for them? Did mad dogs have a season? He guessed it was a pit bull, and from stories he’d heard they came in close behind a rabid dog. Pretty near wolf level.

But maybe the thing wasn’t an ordinary dog. It had just appeared. Hadn’t been there one moment, and then there he was big as you please. Pauly’s goose flesh reappeared, quelling his urge to click his tongue and call the animal over.

They studied one another from opposite sides of the dirt road until a yellow school bus rolled over the hill and came to a stop between them. For some reason, Pauly’s butt puckered as he scooted through the bus door a little quicker’n usual. After finding a seat beside his best friend Billy Bills, he twisted to look out the back window. No dog. The roadway was clear.

“That’s weird,” he mumbled.

“What’s weird,” Billy wanted to know.

“That dog.”

“What dog?”

“Sitting on the side of the road.”

“Didn’t see no dog. Kinda dog?” Billy asked.

“Dunno. Big one. Probably one of those pit bulls.”

“Oh, they can be mean. I hear one tore an arm off a kid over in Middleton.”

Pauly curled his lip. Billy hadn’t heard any such thing. It was just one of his stories.

“What did it look like?” Billy asked.

Like I said, big. Kinda gray and tan. This line went right down the middle of his face, and on one side it was tan, and on the other, gray.”

“Yeah, sounds like a pit bull. You said weird. What was weird about it?”

Pauly shrugged. “Dunno, really. I mean, it wasn’t there, and then it was.”

“You mean it just ran up?”

“Naw,” Pauly said with a shake of his head. “It was just there. Didn’t see it come up or anything.”

“Uh-oh,” maybe it was a shapeshifter.” Billy was part Navajo.

“Do shapeshifters turn into dogs.”

Billy let out a breath. “They turn into anything they want to.” He studied the seat in front of them a minute. “But I never seen one turn into a dog.”

Pauly punched his shoulder. “Yeah, like you’ve ever seen one.”

“Well, my grandpa has. And my uncle too.”

They argued over shapeshifters all the way to Ecton Elementary some five miles down the road.

****

That afternoon, Pauly’s mind wandered as he fought to keep from dozing, thanks to too much to eat at lunch and his sixth grade teacher. Mr. Hasterton spoke in a  monotone unless he was talking about football. Then he sounded human, not like one of those metronomes in the band room that went click-click in a measured beat. On the few nights Pauly didn’t drop off to sleep the moment he got to bed, he wished his teacher had been there to give one of his lectures. That woulda put him out like the light bulb in the barn when Pauly pulled the string on it. A glance out the window brought him wide awake.

In the shadow of a cottonwood at the edge of the schoolyard, he made out the shape of a big dog sitting and staring at the window like a guard dog put on alert. The pit bull… if that’s what it really was.

 

****

Well, here we go again. Last week “vampires,” and this week “shapeshifters,” perhaps. Or maybe it’s just an ordinary dog. But even so… a pit bull? Are they vicious or big cuddle buddies? You can get into a big argument over that. At any rate, we’re not sure exactly what the animal is yet. Let’s learn more next week.

 See you then.

Stay safe and stay strong until we meet again.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have somethingto 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:

Emal 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. 

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

 dontravis.com blog post #638

 Images Courtesy of Dreamstime:

 

Aha, loaded down with garlic and crosses and silver-backed mirrors, our hero is walking up the hill toward the woods to confront his vampire… or werewolf… or whatever. Let’s see what happens.

 

****

GARLIC AND CROSSES AND SILVER BACKED MIRRORS

The forest seemed darker today as I pushed through the underbrush and entered the trees. Other than the noise I was making, they were absolutely silent. No bird calls. No squirrel chatter. Nothing.

But I caught the dying sway of a scrub oak bush where someone—or something—had recently passed and headed straight for it. And beyond it to another bush just going still. On a leaf of this one, I found a scrap of leather… rawhide really. Long, like it was a fringe off something.

I moved deeper into the trees, feeling like the pathfinder in one of those James Fennimore Cooper novels tracking his prey, especially after I found some long dark hairs on another bush. As I moved on, I noticed the darkness lifting. Now really curious, I darted from bush to tree as the atmosphere lightened more and more. Ahead, I caught a ray of sunshine. A clearing. A clearing lay ahead of me.

I broke through the last of the trees and was so bedazzled by the pretty glen that I failed to notice the figure standing at the far side at first. And it gave me a start when I did, I can tell you. My heart hammered against the cross on my chest so hard that I’ll swear it moved. I’m not sure, but I think maybe I gasped.

The creature raised its right hand, palm out, and called out a word I didn’t recognize. Having nothing better to do, I mimicked his hand lifting and yelled back, “Howdy.”

He stood dead still until I took a hesitant step forward, and then he did too. As we performed a weird ritual dance, he morphed into a human. Definitely a human. Man… well, boy. Probably about my age. Not one of Ma’s Romny… but an Indian.

That puckered my sphincter. Here I was alone in the woods with a wild Indian. Didn’t matter if I was garlicked to the gills, what I needed was my rifle. Heck, I didn’t even have my pocketknife. Forgot to pick it up when I left the house.

I tucked away my panic and looked more closely as we neared. No weapons. That’s good. Wait! Knife in a scabbard at his waist. Left side. Did that mean he was left-handed? Ma had some saying about off-handers too, but I couldn’t remember what it was. Nothing good, I’m sure.

That glen musta been bigger’n I thought, or else we were taking baby steps, because I had time to notice his clothing. He wore what Pa called a hairbine around his forehead holding back long, dark locks that woulda made Sara jealous. Came clear down past his shoulders. No shirt, and his shoulders looked way broader’n mine. Guess Sara’s not the only one in the family capable of envy. His trousers were buckskin with fringes—that’s where that piece of leather on the bush came from. That almost brought me to a halt.

He'd lured me here. Pure and simple lured me in. Tore off a fringe and pulled out a few hairs for me to follow. My scalp prickled like a duck’s behind.

Then I noticed his shoes. Moccasins. But not just rawhide, the tops glistened when he walked. And when we were close enough, I saw they were festooned with beautiful, colored beadwork. Sara would’ve gone green over those too. Heck, I wouldn’t mind having a pair.

I was close enough now to make out his features, and they were surprisingly pleasant. Dunno why I said surprisingly. Maybe I thought all Indians were closed and dark and brooding. This one wore a beaming smile that reached all the way to his black eyes. Never seen anyone with black eyes before. Reminded me of a hawk staring at me. I almost snickered. A smiling hawk.

He stopped just beyond arm’s length, so I did too.

Those black eyes scoured my person, and I figured he considered I was overdressed, laden with garlic and a cross and silver backed mirrors like I was. He was focusing on them, I could see.

My “vampire” lifted a hand, pointed at his broad chest, and said something that sounded like “Hookoyete.” If that was his monicker, it sure was a heavy one.

I shoved a thumb at me and said, “Jamey.”

That gave him some trouble too. “S-shamey?” he stuttered.

I shook my head. “Ja-mey, Jamey.” Then I tried out his. After a couple of tries, neither of which got it, I gave up and pointed at each of us in turn, and pronounced. “Hook. You’re Hook, and I’m Jamey.

He frowned, but his expression cleared as he understood. “Hah! Hook—” He pointed at himself first and then to me. “—Shamy.”

I nodded. If I was gonna mangle his name, couldn’t object if he did the same to mine.

We took another mutual step, which put us nose to nose. He really was a pleasant looking fellow. Looked clean too. Not dirty and smelly like some folks said the natives were. In fact, I was the smelly one of the two. He reached out and lifted my amulet to his nose and took a whiff before recoiling.

“Garlic,” I said.

He muttered an unpronounceable word I took to be his word for garlic.

“Yeah. Garlic. Scares off vampires and werewolves but apparently doesn’t work on Indians.” At his frown, I reached a conclusion. “You don’t speak American, do you?”

“’Merican? Yes. No. Thank you. Go now.”

As he made no move to leave, I took that to be a recitation of his English vocabulary. “That’s more’n I can say in your language.”

He surprised me by lifting my arm and laying his alongside it. Comparing our coloration, I gathered. He confirmed it by moistening a finger and rubbing my forearm vigorously to see if the light color came off. I knew better, of course, but he’d done it, so I did too. His darker complexion didn’t change beneath my vigorous rubbing.

That unleashed us. Giggling like teenagers—well, technically we still were, although well past the giggling age—we examined one another. He lifted off my garlic and mirrors and cross and made clear he wanted me to unbutton my shirt. I did, and he moved behind me to take it off and feel and poke and mumble aloud. That’s when it dawned on me he was trying to see if we were the same—other than the difference in our skin. He wanted to know if I was human. That gave me a tumble. Old Mrs. Jarvis at the church we sometimes attended loudly proclaimed that Indians were not. She held the same, unshakable opinion of black people.

Now here was a Red Indian trying to make the same determination of me… a white kid. I’d sure like to tell Mrs. Jarvis about that, but the old bat would probably expire if she knew I let an Indian touch me. Might be a decent trade-off.

And touch me, Hook did. He felt my back and my chest and my belly and inspected my underarms like he was buying a boy at a slave market. If he tried to inspect my teeth, I wasn’t gonna put up with it. But tit for tat, I brushed his arms away and went to work inspecting him. He let me put my hands all over him. I pinched him here and rubbed him there until I noticed something. When I touched one of his nipples, it stood up. Curious I brushed the other one. It did the same. When my mind flashed on Nettie Nixton’s boobs, I figured I’d crossed the line somehow.

Apparently, Hook wasn’t aware of any such line, because he pushed my hands away and did the same to me. When he fingered the left one, I almost jumped. I knew girls’ breasts were an “erogenous zone,” as one book called them, but sure never figured that was true for a fellow. But when hook fingered mine, I felt it down in my britches. Had he when reacted that way when I did it to him?

Then he really took me by surprise. He moved in and lapped his lip over one like he was a vampire going for blood. Indians had witches, didn’t they? Was this guy a junior apprentice witch? If so, I was a gonner. I couldn’t have moved if I’d wanted.

When he switched to the other one, I forgot about all of that and sorta reveled in the feeling. I couldn’t believe sucking on my tit was affecting another part of my anatomy, but it sure was. Down south, I was growing like crazy.

He came up for air, and we just sorta stared at one another. Sure wasn’t a smile on his face now. And it was a darned good face too. Better’n Nettie’s flashed my mind before I could stop it.

After a long moment of examining one another’s pupils, Hook put hands to his waist and slipped down his trousers. Did he want to see if we were built alike down there too?

I took a look. Lord almighty! I wish! Without thinking, I slid down my own britches and didn’t even blink when he reached for me.

Hook wanted more’n just a good look at it, lots more… and he got it too.

 

****

Looks like this “vampire’s” after something other than blood. Let your imagination suggest how many ways Jamey may have given it to him.

 See you 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, a series of seven books, all related but stand alone for readers. Still, better to start with the first The Zozobra Incident.

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. 

 

Garlic and Crosses and Silver Backed Mirrors (Part 2 of 3 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #638

Images Courtesy of Dreamstime:

 

The Singaporeans were back last week. Welcome, and I hope you stick around for the finale of the story. Speaking of which:

 Vampires? Werewolves? Those are Eastern European things, aren’t they? Not here in America, even frontier America. Or are they? Let’s read on and find out.

 

                                                                         ****

GARLIC AND CROSSES AND SILVER BACKED MIRRORS

The woods always got to me… you know, how dark they were. Out in the field, the sun made the rocks sweat. But here beneath a thick canopy of leaves, the place grew gloomy and held a different kind of heat… close and stifling. I searched the area around the bush I’d seen quake, but I didn’t find a thing out of the ordinary.

Off to the west, I heard a noise like a branch snapping or an acorn falling to the ground. Coulda been natural, or might have been something sinister… like Ma’s vampire or Sara’s werewolf. But I was garlicked to the gills and laden with silver backed mirrors plus a clunky cross around my neck, so I was safe, wasn’t I? Then why was my back puckered like a patch of goose flesh and my breath coming hard?

Then I saw it. A shape, an indistinct form in the gloom. The thing, whatever it was, stared at me a moment before vanishing behind the bole of a tree. I shoulda chased after it, but I turned tail and ran for all I was worth… which apparently wasn’t very much. Not so far as bravery was concerned, at any rate. I was so chicken, I felt like clucking.

****

Of course, I couldn’t keep my big yap shut and blurted it all over the supper table that night.

“You actually saw it?” Sara asked, her eyes mimicking two the ten pennies I’d managed to save and hide in the toe of a sock.

“Uh-huh. With my own eyes.” I anticipated her next question. “Dunno exactly what I was looking at. Too dark.”

“Describe it as best you can,” my pa urged.

“Dark. Everything was dark. Hair black as that oil you smear on the wagon’s wheels.”

“Was it a man?” Sara asked, her eyes back to normal. “Or a beast or—”

“Best I could tell, it was a man. Leastways, didn’t seem to be four-legged or have wings or nothing like that.”

“Anything like that,” Ma automatically corrected. “Many of them are Romany, and they’re all dark. Black-headed, dark-skinned.”

“Yeah, like that.”

“But what did he look like?” Sara persisted. “Was he ugly like a warlock or—”

“Handsome as a prince?” I interrupted to jab at her verbally. “Dunno. Like I said, it was dark.”

“And you were too scared to notice. Probably went cross eyed,” she struck back, demonstrating her point by crossing her blue orbs and sticking her tongue out the side of her mouth.

“And right that you should be frightened,” Ma interjected. “Vampires are vile and crafty and cannot be trusted.”

“I’ll bet you took one look and ran away,” Sara put in, not about to let me get away with my “handsome prince” remark. “Did you wet your pants too?”

“Sara!” my parents exclaimed in unison.

“You bet I did,” I said. “Ran, that is. Not the other. But he ran first. At least he disappeared behind a tree.”

“You don’t go in the woods anymore,” Ma said in a sharp voice. “You stay in the fields. You keep to the sunshine.”

“Kinda hard to hunt in the fields,” Pa said. “But maybe it’d be best if we went hunting together, Son. So your ma’s right. Stay outta the woods unless I’m with you.”

He didn’t need to tell me twice.

I thought I’d be bothered by dreams that night, but I guess I was tired, because the Sandman came early, and the next thing I knew it was cracking dawn.

****

Pa and I usually worked in different fields, and two days later, musta been mid-morning when I hauled Cloppy to a halt and held up my hand to shade my vision. Movement had caught my attention. It took a bit of searching before I spotted him. A figure. A human figure stood at the northern edge of the field just outside the tree line… full in the sunlight. Male, from what I could tell. How long had he been there? Apparently, he could handle the bright sun, but for how long? Long enough to lope down here and suck the blood from my veins? He’d have to catch me first. Oh, couldn’t they turn into bats? Wouldn’t have any trouble catching me then. The hair on the back of my neck rose.

But for some reason, I wasn’t afraid… not really, just anxious. Maybe it was the fresh garlic Ma’d fashioned into my amulet. I’d started calling it that instead of a necklace. Necklace was a word Sara’d use.

He watched me watch him for a long moment before turning and entering the forest in a graceful, masculine stride. Recalling my sister’s taunt about running away and forgetting Pa’s orders to stay out of the forest,” I dropped Cloppy’s rein and walked up the hill toward the woods.

 

****

Looks like his little sister’s sniping put a little steel in Jamey’s backbone… but is that a good thing or a bad thing. We’ll find out in next week’s finale.

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 take a look at my BJ Vinson murder mystery series published by Dreamspinner Press. The seven books are a series, but they can be read independently. Better to start with the first, The Zozobra Incident. 

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.

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.