FAQ Five: The Houston Journal Express
Chapter 5
The old police station on Cobble Street in Downtown Houston smelled great. Apparently a former officer had a brother-in-law who dabbled in chemicals and had invented an automatic atomizer, which mixed the scent of your choice with a bit of oxygen to make your own botanical garden atmosphere.
This station was the only one with this experimental technology and all of the officers made fun of it, until the device stopped working or someone forgot to change the oxygen bottle. The smell of Houston’s criminal reality was enough to scorch your nose hair. The emitter was reactivated and shown due respect.
Warren shuffled toward the desk Sergeant while the accompanying officers brought up the rear. Sarge was on the phone and glanced up as Warren approached. Her blue eyes took in the approaching suspect with a certain inquisitiveness usually shown by female Cobras just before they ate their young. She spoke into the receiver.
“Just put down 50 in a thirty five, after all he was the mayor….I applaud your efforts but you’re playing with your budding career, that’s why he had you call me…OK, then take him to the Green Oaks diner for coffee, anything, just keep him away from that vehicle until he sobers up.”
The Sergeant placed the telephone on it’s cradle and looked over Warren at the officers. She picked a Houston Journal Express from her desk and turned to the classifieds, biting her lower lip as she scanned the ads with a number 2 yellow pencil. Three minutes into this activity, without looking up, she quietly asked, “Can I help you gentlemen?”
Warren looked at Sarge and decided silence in the face of this man-eater would be prudent.
One of the officers behind Warren said, “This is one of the gentleman found at the scene of the Harper shooting.”
A uniform walked by the desk and grabbed the Sergeants eye.
“Hey,” Sarge shouted, “Who won the Crockets game last night?”
Warren jumped in. “Rockets by 12, no thanks to that idiot Tomjohnabitch. He stayed with Aheem on a 0 for 12 shooting night, a night when Aheem was a little less than a dream. Some of our illustrious Houston Crockett season ticket holders might even say Aheem had a nightmare night and perhaps an immediate switch to an alternative career in the service industries might be in order.
This after the Houston team as a general rule has decided maybe two championship banners in the rafters will last for the next decade, I mean after all, Chicago stopped winning, didn’t they?
What’s all this stuff about points and winning anyway? The real important things in a basketball life are the concessions and the cheerleaders, not necessarily in that order.
We can make it happen!! But let’s have a plate of nachos first!!”
“Say the word Sarge, and I’ll give Mr. Piece a nice little sports injury.”
The Sarge looked at Piece, blinked, fixed her blue eyes on Mack, the senior patrolman who’d brought Warren in, and said with a grin, “Warren Piece, as I live and breath. Mackie, I’ll handle his interrogation. Billy Sherman, take the desk!”
Mackie said to Warren’s back, “You’re lucky the Sarge is a big sports fan.”
The Sarge came down from the pedestal, walked up to Warren, and stopped just short of giving him a head butt.
“Uncuff him Mackie.”
Mackie did as he was told with a grunt and Warren brought his hands in front of him, rubbing his wrists.
The Sarge spun him around and pushed him toward a metal door at the far end of the squad room. Warren and the Sarge passed through the door and walked down the short hallway, turning at the first right, entering a small room with a square metal table bolted to the floor and two folding chairs.
The Sarge threw the dead bolt on the door, turned to face Piece, and licked her lips.
“Who shot that old bastard Ben Harper?”
“I think I should get a lawyer,” Warren said, eying the Sarge as she sat down on the edge of the table.
“I think that idiot Mad Wolf finally lost what few marbles he had. Ben Harper told him that when his current contract was up so he was out, and Wolf tried to scare him, only he should have spent more time at the pistol range, because he accidentally hit a bullseye. Far as I’m concerned, just one less sports geek to worry about.”
“Ben Harper or Mad Wolf Sherman?”
The Sarge turned around, unbuckled her belt, and wiggled out of her uniform pants. Underneath she was wearing a black thong, which she also removed. She turned and looked at Piece.
“Wanna make bail?”
“I thought this kind of thing only happened in the ZBA”, Warren said, hustling to free Willy.
“I’m preferential to sportswriters. Now let’s clear you of all charges.”
Chapter 6
Warren woke to the sound of his telephone. He said hello, hello, into the air to chase the sleep from his throat.
“Hello,” he said into the receiver, checking the clock on the solid walnut nightstand.
“May I speak to Warren Piece?” a female voice asked.
“Just a minute, I’ll get him.”
Warren place the phone on the bed, stood, stretched, and went to the kitchen to make coffee.
He returned, stripped off his pajama shirt, and picked up the Sony portable phone.
There was no response. Warren put a finger in his ear and listened closely. Voices on the other end were in some kind of argument.
“I didn’t use the ticket twice, you crazy bitch!”
Then garbled noises and a female voice. “Take your boat anchor of a personality and you stupid Chuck Taylor sneakers and GET OUT! And leave the chocolate!”
Warren put the phone between his shoulder and neck and poured his first cup of Chock Full of Nuts coffee.
He heard some heavy breathing and then, “Hello, are you there?”
“I’m here,” Warren answered, squinting as he opened the blinds in his living room and looked down at the cat rubbing his leg.
“I’m Bailey Harper, Ben Harper’s daughter. I’ve got a proposition for you. Would you please meet me for lunch today at the Brassiere? I think you‘ll be interested in what I have to say. Plus, I won’t be wearing underwear.”
Warren sat down in a black wing back chair and invited his cat to join him. “OK.” He hung up the phone.
“Well,” he said to his cat Cassell, “she sounds rather unhygienic.”
Chapter 7
We need to do a little violence
by Warren Piece
I guess by now it’s no secret I was one of last people to see Mad Wolf Sherman before he escaped police custody and headed for parts unknown.
I can’t write about what exactly went down at KSPORT that day, but I can write about the adrenaline rush you can get from committing a little violence.
In the ZBA Lionel Freewelt attacked D.T. Johnson, the coach of the Silver State Squaws. Twenty minutes later Freewelt returned and punched Coach Johnson in the throat. This is a definite raising of the bar.
Some things are more important than money.” Quote from the General Manger of the Silver State Squaws basketball team after suspending Lionel Freewelt for the rest of the season as a result of his attack on Coach D.T. Johnson.
This Sunday I’m going to attend services at the United Methodist Church and when the time comes for Nathaniel Swank to lead us in prayer, I won’t keep my eyes open and chant, “Hare Krishna…Hare Krishna…Hare Krishna.”
I won’t carry my IPad to look in on ‘Sunday Mudslide from Washington’ and talk back to Julia Dough out loud.
I’ll leave my drum machine at home, my boom box in the basement, I won’t bring my fly rod to practice casting (sometimes if you hook a choir members robe and reel the line in just right, it’s possible to snatch the garment clean off the wearer… especially fun at Easter service).
This Sunday I’m going to behave as though the assault on my faith in public figures has abetted, if just for a day.
Imagine how we all might feel if people in charge of the moment weren’t so self-centered, concerned with getting theirs and then trying to convince themselves and everyone else they are truly well intentioned self-sacrificing buck stopping world beaters.
It seems in America today, the bigger you get, the harder it is to come clean when you’ve been caught, and the more difficult it is to hear, “It was you Charlie, it was you.”
Warren finished his newspaper business of the day by e-mailing his column to Frank W. Coleman at the Journal Express.
He put Aerosmith’s Walk This Way on the stereo and began playing a vicious air guitar.
There was a knock on the door.
Kanois had arrived to pick up her suitcase on her way to the airport.
“Hi, Kanois.”
Kanois looked over at sunglasses at Warren and smiled.
“Got time for a quickie?” she asked, pulling her top over her head and quickly closing the distance between Warren’s body and her own. She began to lick his neck while nimbly and feverishly working on Warren’s sterling silver belt buckle.
Warren managed to gasp, “Should we close the door or leave it open so this makes a better story later?”
Kanois was too busy to answer.
The fever had taken over.
“Does this thing ever go below seventy for any length of time?” Warren asked Kanois as she maneuvered the Mitsubishi 300XL through interstate traffic on the way to the Earl Campbell international airport.
Houston flew by the window, a blur of Ford Expeditions, Chevy Surburbans, red Miatas, and the occasional Houston police vehicle.
Warren looked at Kanois. She was wearing little silver cowboy boot earrings and had placed a temporary tattoo of a bull rider on her right bicep.
“Hey, Kanois, when are you coming back again?”
“Well,” she said, glancing in the rear view mirror, “I’m not sure. You know, when I start on one of these trips I never know where it will lead.” She looked over at Warren and grinned. “Remember the last time? I was gone six months, but I came back with a two dozen sketches for my fall line, three new synthetic fibers never before used in the U.S., and a photo album. Those behind the scenes shots of the beautiful people that make up our little world of fashion designers, did I ever get them back from you?”
Warren fished in his pocket for toll money as they made the final approach to the airport. “I still want to know how you got that shot on page 6.”
“I told you, tricks of the trade.”
“The trick part I believe.” Warren handed Kanois five dollars and settled back in his seat.
“I’m going to miss you terribly, did I say that.”
Kanois gunned the Mitsubishi and headed toward the long term parking.
“This is a fast trip, just to wrap up a few loose ends. I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”
Warren sat at the airport bar and ordered a bloody mary. He pulled his Nokia phone from his pocket and speed dialed the number of KSPORT.
“KSPORT Radio.”
“Hi, this is Warren Piece calling for Bailey Harper.”
“One moment.”
Warren paid the bartender and took his Bloody Mary to the window.
“I’m sorry, she’s on another line, can I take a message?”
Warren punched the end button, place the phone in his pocket, watched CNN Headline News for the amount of time it took him to finish his drink, then headed toward the airport internet terminal, where he inserted his titanium unbreakable sky’s the limit American Express blue card, logged on, and went to his website, FAQ…Advice for the Twenty-First Century.
Dear Warrenstein,
I am an independently wealthy American with an Austrian mother and an Israeli father. While traveling with the PGA Tour last week I began to openly wish for a deeper involvement in the affairs of my mother’s homeland, usually after dinner and several cocktails in the company of golfing professionals who’ve never even sniffed the leader board. My friends advised me to join the always on Ralph Nader presidential campaign, help propel him to victory, and angle a cabinet post. I think mainly because they feel it’s time a Jewish Nazi had a chance to become Secretary of Defense.
Now that he’s gone down in flames again I’m in a quandary. Where can a rich guy go to get control of a few good sized battalions of fighting men and some long range nuclear weapons?
signed,
Karl Rabenowitz
Hey Karl,
Whattsa matter babe? Not enough blondes on the tour for ya? Christ man, I can think of several good ways to jump into politics if you’d just put down that olive jar for a minute. First, let me say I’ve enlisted the services of an old college associate to psychoanalyze your letter. She tells me your general disposition calls for a non-strenuous approach.
Hollywood is your ticket! Screenwriters are dying on the vine out there, dude! Set one up with a small advance, get ‘em to fire off a treatment involving a professional golfer who wins the presidency while never leaving the links. The first hundred days go by without President Kenneth (let’s call this dude Kenneth) ever leaving the country club grounds, due mainly to the fact he has a terrific vice president.
Then, in the midst of a barrage of questionable activity where he fails to make par a single time in a week, Kenneth declares California an independent Jewish state and is subsequently kidnapped by Austrian terrorists sporting the first ever nuclear handguns.
Something along those lines.
Good luck to you, you crazy bastard!
My dearest Warren,
I’m a meteorologist for a midwestern big city television station. Recently, during my Friday 6p.m. weathercast I deliberately and enthusiastically lowered the Saturday expected high temperature by fifteen degrees in the hopes of reducing the men and women pursuing the Great American Past Time, golfing.
To my horror the links were 20 percent more crowded than normal for my twelve noon tee time and I wound up in a foursome with two sanitation workers who, by the way, were openly demonstrating the benefits of their new contract by flashing titanium clubs and very stylish knickers.
I actually had a great time, even though the guys stole all my golf balls and threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t stop with the sexual innuendo by overusing the word ‘stroke’.
My point is this: I’m worried!
I’m losing my hair, my eyes are starting to yellow, I’ve started walking funny, and I’m dying to predict a major firestorm of biblical proportions (how unprofessional!)
How do I get a grip?
Stan Chumpion
Yo Stanley,
OK, brother, take a deep breath and button up your cardigan. Do you have any vacation time? I would suggest you take a trip to Europe, preferably to grab a ride on one of those great trains that rolls through the countryside of France.
Go alone.
Meet people.
Mingle with strangers.
Do your stretching exercises.
Then finish your vacation by spending three days and nights observing the Northern Lights and listening to George Harrison’s Concert for Bangladesh over and over.
When you have finished all this, if you still feel like Zeus the meteorologist, go with it. There are worst things than predicting firestorms, like actually causing them.
Dear Warren,
I own a self-serve gas station in the Nevada desert. I spend my spare time drinking Boone’s Farm, making bombs, and inventing recipes for rabbit stew. I recently married an Asian woman I ordered through the mail, and she’s expecting our first child in six months. I was wondering if you’ve ever been to Washington? I have to make a delivery to a lobbyist around this time next September and wanted you to recommend a restaurant.
But first, there’s another matter I need your advice on.
The twelfth day of June began like any other in my crazy life. I woke up, went downstairs, started the Bunn coffemaker, and grabbed my Browning 16 gauge pump for some early morning target practice.
I usually loaded the automatic clay pigeon launcher with 24 clay pigeons and had a party, but today the air visibility was extremely clear, so I thought I could hit 16 of 16, saving 8 pigeons.
When I approached the firing range I noticed something red dripping from the wooden firing station I had constructed consulting blueprints I’d received free with my subscription to Soldier Of Fortune magazine.
Blood?
I clicked the safety on the Browning and pumped a shell into the chamber while sniffing the air for any scents of an intruder (hey, it works for my Dalmatian Spike).
I studied the firing station in the early morning light and began to discern a pattern. The red markings were…letters!
Paint!
I walked to the firing station and read the freshly painted message.
Do Not Fire Your Clay Pigeon Launcher! I have rigged it to blow apart upon use! Stop discharging your weapons before seven a.m.!!! Your neighbor with the telescopic sights, Gerald.
Now, if I weren’t afraid of exposing my illegal bomb making operation, I’d call the cops. My problem is this:
Do I make the adjustment in my personal life?
Or do I just shoot that geriatric old bastard Gerald?
This is the southwest after all, where the first murder is free.
Billy Walker
Hey William Tell,
First, lose this address.
Second, as an expert marksman who personally prefers a Remington I understand your need to begin your day by pretending to kill something.
I would advise you to write a well-worded manifest to your neighbor, inviting him to make his request in person on the skeet range at 5:00 am, a week from Thursday.
And by the way, Gezzonairs don’t fight fair, so don’t be surprised if you’re ambushed and have to dig some buckshot out of your butt after the initial ‘Good Morning’.
I’m sure this will escalate into a border war, possibly damaging relations between you two beyond all recovery, so I’ll keep an eye on the papers from out that way. I’m betting I’ll be able to pick up a coupla good spreads from the sheriff’s auctions.
Hey Rainman,
I fly hot air balloons for a living. Every day I go through the same routine. Breakfast, acoustic guitar lessons, 2 rounds of sparring with my Korean butler, then on to the airfield to suck a good living out of the aerial challenged visitors to our lovely Utah town.
On the weekends I take one of my Mormon wives and our family up for some quality time, and this is where I need your advice. I’ve discovered, quite by accident, an encampment of the Arian nation. I can see their flags and rifle range clearly. Most weekends since they’ve arrived I happen by just when they are singing songs glorifying their philosophy, which they aspire to make a way of life for all hard working, honest, white Americans. That is if I understand the lyrics correctly.
My problem is this:
Should I report this to the authorities before something terrible happens?
Or should I look on this as an opportunity to offer my leisure services to a whole new section of the ballooning market?
Signed,
James Peach
Hey helium head,
At first thought the possibility of emerging unscathed from your encounter with this semi-paramilitary organization ranges between slim and none. However, after contacting a leader within the brotherhood I’ve discovered that Arians, they just wanna have fun!
I’ve used the return address on your letter to mail you rates they dictated, uh, suggested, for aerial excitement. They are expecting you next weekend, and if you think you don’t have to show, they asked me to relay this message:
What comes up must come down!
Whatever that means.
Please don’t thank me!
Warmon,
I am a 17 year old girl who just received permission from the state of New Jersey to operate a motor vehicle.
My father has a BMW with heated leather seats.
My mother drives a red convertible Mustang with fully reclinable seats.
When I drive to my boyfriend’s house to go out on our first car date, which car should I use to discourage him from trying to demonstrate his manhood? I would hate to be forced to hurt him, he’s kinda cute!
Plus, my motivation for practically begging him to light my fire…Alan’s father is an alumnus at Princeton University, and I have everything I need to get past those golden gates except the connection.
My long range plan is date Alan until halfway through my freshman year when I plan to become very critical of his fashion sense, alienating him completely.
Make him think breaking up was his idea completely (I don’t know, she changed, started wearing tight pants and low cut shoes…and criticizing my Yankees world series cap!),
My plan all starts with the choice of car.
signed,
Jessica Stark
Jesse girl,
Not to change the subject, but when I was a kid my little sister belonged in a nunnery, and unfortunately as she got older she got no better. Now she’s got 14 kids by three husbands, two one night stands, and three adoption agencies.
Not that she doesn’t love kids.
She started going sideways when my Dad finished reading her the owner’s manual of, you guessed it, a convertible Mustang.
Madeline never disrupted her school day, but mere seconds after each and every dismissal she would begin a furious run at the male student body leaders, starting with an offer of a wind blown high speed ride home.
In high school, in college, in life, when you’re all about the car, you better be prepared to accept the depreciation associated with you vehicle of choice.
Take the Beamer.
Warren signed off and went to the short term parking lot and Kanois’ Mitsubishi.
Chapter 8
Monday afternoon at two o’clock Warren walked through the doors of the Brassiere, a franchise restaurant bar located inside the lush grounds of Houston’s premier country club, The South 40. He spotted the maitre’d and pulled a fifty from his pocket.
“Here, William, and I still think the Crocketts were robbed by the female official. They just don’t like the weather in Houston, it puts ‘em in a bad mood, and they end up taking it out on the best basketball franchise ever to grace a Southern hardwood floor.”
William grinned, showing his expensive dental work, and nodded his head in the direction of a table near the window.
“Miss Harper’s been waiting for over an hour and a half, but she’s only drinking Kaloua and coffee, so I think she’s still coherent.”
“Thanks. If I wave three fingers in the air within the first two minutes ask Eduardo to bring two shots of the hard stuff.”
Warren headed toward the table and a meeting with the surviving daughter of Ben Harper, former Houston oil and media mogul, owner of KSPORT Radio, current dead guy.
Warren sat down, ran his hand through his hair, and waited for his lunch companion to break her reverie.
“So,” she said after six minutes, “You were in the parking lot.”
Warren cleared his throat and said, “Yes, I was. I was in the parking lot. I had a very disturbing freakin’ experience in the parking lot.”
Bailey spoke, still looking out the window. “You know I had warned him several times about Mad Wolf. Before he became a sports talk host he was one of these guys who traveled around the South to gun shows selling and buying barely legal weapons.”
“How did he get into broadcasting?” Warren asked as he waved three fingers in the air.
“Wolf has been the lead auctioneer at the Houston cattle yards since he was twenty-nine years old. A job he grew into under his uncle. He had a good voice. Could work a crowd, you know. When my dad went looking for some sports egomaniac to handle phone calls who also knew his way around Houston, Wolf came to mind. My Daddy had 2000 head of cattle on the ranch, and he used to make side bets with Mad Wolf on the outcomes of certain auctions. Kind of a way to entice Wolf to help daddy’s auction along, I think, but who knows?”
“So, what made you think he was dangerous?”
“He started wanting more money, and more money, and more money, and more money from his radio contract. As I said, he was into some weird stuff before he’d become a success on the air, and maybe he’s thinking he could get off the road and stop smelling the stockyards in his nose every moment of his waking life. Finally go legit, like that.”
Eduardo came with the drinks and Bailey finally looked Warren in the eye. She was somewhere around thirty, deeply tanned, a natural brunette with deep green eyes that were a touch bloodshot.
She reached out and touched Warren’s hand.
“I need someone to do the afternoon shift at KSPORT. I was, as you may or may not know, very involved in running the radio station. Although nothing has been settled as far as my father’s affairs are concerned, I have the power to offer you a short term contract.”
Bailey took her hand from Warren’s and reached under the table, producing papers that had been on one of the empty leather chairs.
“I would like to know something by the end of business tomorrow. I have my reasons for pushing this through. As a matter of fact, here comes one now.”
Bailey looked over Warren’s head and smiled. “Hello Dole.”
Bailey stood, bent over to retrieve her purse, straightened, and said to Dole, “I’m going to walk Warren to his car, you can order some lunch and relax, I’ll be back.”
Warren stood and extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Warren Piece. Damned glad to meet ‘ya!”
Dole swung his hand toward Warren’s and said, “Hi, Bud! I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other! Hurry back Bailey.” Dole noisily pulled a black leather chair from the table, unbuttoned his blue blazer, and grabbed a napkin with purpose.
“Hurry back, big sister. We’ve got a lot of fat to chew and not much time to do it.”
The waiter approached the table with drinks. Warren grabbed his Jack and threw it down. Warren and Bailey left to the sound of Dole ordering lunch with the attitude of a bear approaching the honey tree.
“Your boy Dole strikes quite a figure.” Warren said as he and Bailey headed toward the taxi stand.
Bailey took Warren’s hand and said, “He looks good with that close cropped red hair, and you’d think he’s bought stock in Twin Labs and Jack LaLane from the look of him. Six feet three inches two hundred pounds of good lookin’ Texas asshole.”
Warren opened the yellow door of the Ford cab. Bailey grabbed Warren’s elbow and pulled him close. Chanel, she wore Chanel.
“Call me tomorrow, no matter what you decide. I want to see you again.”
“I’m deciding nothing, which is my forte.”
Bailey bit her lower lip and stepped back, giving Warren a tiny wave as she bounced lightly on her toes, kind of a goodbye jiggle. He slid into the cab and closed the door.
Warren turned to look out the opposite window as the cab pulled away from the curb on it’s way to the Journal Express, and was surprised to find himself eye to eye with an Alaskan Malamut.
Chapter 10
“The thing most people don’t realize about your Alaskan Malamut is, pure bred, they are one dangerous freakin’ animal. You have to cross breed the Mute to gentle him, with your German Sheppard, or even you Labrador retriever. Now you don’t want to cross the Mute with a Doberman, or you’ll get the doggie equivalent of that freak Prince. Wild as hell and mates with anything that walks. You know what I’m sayin?”
The cab driver took a breath and Warren continued to wrestle with Dan the Malamut.
The cab driver said, “Do you mind if I go local, the interstate’s kinda sluggish today.”
“I could care less, as long as you don’t crash or start drinking vodka shots.”
“WOOF WOOF,” Dan agreed.
The city of Houston flew by the window. Big glass buildings, dwarfing pedestrians on the street. Houston. The smell of oil and the stain of tobacco juice. If you were stopped in Houston and your were not carrying some sort of firearm the Houston p.d. would likely take you in for not holding up your end of the fifth amendment.
Houston. A shitkickers paradise.
“Hey, Dan, did you know you were living in a shitkickers paradise?”
“WOOF WOOF,” said Dan.
The cab rolled to a stop in front of the Journal Express building. Warren leaned forward and asked Abdul, the driver, “Hey, could I keep Dan for a week. He and I have become close.”
The cab driver took the thirty dollars from Warren and said, “Mister, that dog goes with me wherever I go.”
“OK, then how about this. I’ve got tickets for tomorrow night’s Crocketts Clampetts game. Why don’t you come along and bring Dan. My car’s in storage and I could use the ride.”
Abdul stretched his neck and looked out his window at the Journal Express building.
“OK, sure, a night out.”
Warren handed Abdul his card. “Call me tomorrow promptly at three.”
Warren entered the Express building, nodded to the doorman, and proceeded to the elevator. The door opened, Warren stepped in and participated in a general elevator greeting.
“Hello…good morning…good morning…hi…hey.”
The elevator doors closed and the Otis began it’s ascent. A sudden lurch between the fourth and fifth floor was followed by a complete stop between the sixth and seventh. No one moved for a moment, then a voice from the back growled, “What a pain in my ass. Piece, you got your cell phone?”
Warren reached in his pocket and grabbed his blue Nokia phone. As he handed it to a rather attractive brunette he remembered as Judy something from accounting who had a penchant for self promotion exhibited by her disdain of underwear he said, “Would somebody push the alarm button?”
The alarm stirred someone manning the security cameras, represented by a high-pitched female voice stating, “Please don’t play with the emergency buzzer.”
The eight people trapped in the elevator all laughed at once. Al, manning the buzzer, pushed it again. When the voice returned, Al said, “Could you manage to send some help? We’re trapped in the elevator, with pressing appointments and full bladders.”
“Hey Al, how did you know about my bladder?” asked Judy.
“That tight outfit hides nothin’ sweetie, and I can say that since I’m thirty years past my prime,” Al said, taking advantage of his position to count Judy’s upper body chill bumps.
Frank W. spoke into to the Nokia.
“Tell Howard I’m not going to make the morning meeting, and if he doesn’t intervene in this elevator incident I’m going to drink my lunch and go home to sleep it off, and he knows that’s not an idle threat. As a matter of fact I’m here with Piece, and unless I miss my guess he has a flask on him and we may just get started now.”
“Hey Frank, I resent the implication!” Warren said.
“So, do you work in the building?” Judy asked Warren.
“Oh, here we go,” said an older woman in a very smart Donna Karin business suit. “The cheap slut is heard from.”
“Shut up Betty, I told you a never slept with your son, and you should just let it go.”
“So that pair of panties that said, ‘To remember me by signed Judy’ weren’t yours? That wasn’t your car speeding away three weeks ago at two in the morning? That’s not your cell phone number on my son’s cell phone bill which I’m paying.”
“OK, I think he’s cute, but we were just hanging out.”
The elevator lurched, throwing Betty into Piece, who subsequently fell backward into Judy, who grabbed for Al, who fell against the door just as it opened onto the eighth floor, spilling the group onto the floor in a tangle.
Howard Pullman, the senior publisher of the Journal Express, looked down on the pile of bodies and said, “If you like I’ll give you guys a few minutes alone to finish whatever it is you’ve started here.”
Frank Coleman took a big stride to step over the Twister game and said, “Piece, when you done bridging the generation gap, in my office.”
Hank Williams sang from the Zenith stereo in the corner office, a song about going home. Warren entered the inner sanctum and marveled at Frank Coleman’s time capsule.
The story went something like this. Frank had been a new reporter in Houston hired on a favor after a stint at The University of Texas paid for by his prominent grandfather’s oil money. A very bright kid. A lot of promise, a nice apartment, a convertible, a sizable gun collection.
And a taste for the sporting life.
Daniel Snyder, senior editor of The Journal Express, took Frank under his wing because ‘I like your haircut and you walk is just this side of ridiculous’. Frank realized after three weeks on the job that the editor of the Journal Express spent a lot of time on the phone to Chicago.
Said he was talking to his old high school cronies.
Said he should have married his high school sweetheart.
Said he felt so alive after each edition of the Journal Express went to bed.
Said a lot of things.
Every Tuesday, mail would arrive from Chicago for Daniel Snyder, and every Tuesday night Danny Snyder bought rounds for the house at McSorley’s on the South Side.
Innocently enough one Tuesday night at McSorley’s, with Frank at his elbow, Danny mentioned he might be taking a little trip to Vegas the Final four.
Problem was, the final four was being held in Indiana that year.
Frank was already sleeping with Danny’s secretary, so procurement of his itinerary simply required a few French tricks Frank had wanted to try anyway.
Frank booked himself on a shadow airplane flight to Vegas, into a shadow hotel room, and proceeded to shadow Danny.
The point of rescue came on the third night.
That night Frank followed Danny and Danny’s red headed stranger from the craps table to the street disguised in a blonde wig and a newly grown black mustache he was beginning to fancy keeping. When Danny and his female accomplice hooked into a very seedy bar off the main drag Frank tried very hard to remember the prayer to St Anthony. It wouldn’t come.
“Screw it,” he said under his breath. He entered the bar.
Frank stood for a moment to allow his senses to fully appreciate the dim lights, disinfectant, and The Chairman of the Board singing about the Summer Wind. He was finally able to pick Danny out near a corner of the bar by his trademark hand gestures and the presence of the redheaded companion. Frank approached slowly trying to get a feel for the scene unfolding before him. The television over the bar was tuned to the Final Four and as Frank glanced up Oklahoma took the lead by four.
Frank put his elbows on the bar and took a cheese block from a tray. The bartender approached and Frank ordered a Stoli on the rocks. He sipped his drink and slowly turned to check on Danny. Danny and the redhead were headed away from Frank toward a back door, Frank put a ten down on the bar and followed.
The solid oak door swung open in front of Danny and his companion. Frank saw an angry looking weightlifter scanning Danny and the redhead. The weightlifter nodded his head and Danny began to pass through.
Frank took a breath and quickly closed the gap between himself and Danny. “I’m with him,” Frank said.
Danny waved over his shoulder without turning around. “I was wondered how long you’d take to actually approach me, Coleman,” said Danny. “Come see what I do in my spare time.”
The door led to a carpeted staircase.
Then another door.
This one was solid steel with a tiny window about six and a half feet up. Danny turned to look at Frank, winked, and pulled on a piece of the doorframe. A small hinged section of molding pulled back to reveal a black button. Danny punched three longs and two shorts. A motor came to life and the door began to slowly swing open. The redhead took the opportunity to give Danny a big wet kiss. Frank peered past them into a red lit hallway. He could hear shouts and cackling of some sort form beyond his range of vision. The trio walked through the door and it automatically shut behind them.
Yet another door awaited them at the end of the hallway. Danny pushed three shorts and three longs and the door swung open, revealing another weightlifter, this one with no shirt, a long ponytail, and the tattoo of a rooster on his huge hairless chest.
“Dan! Renee!” The man broke into a wide grin, displaying a gold incisor and some really fine bonding work. He grabbed Frank, spun him around and gave him a quick physical.
“Chip, I want you to meet my protégé, Frank. Frank, this is Chip, no last names please.”
“Enjoy Mr. D., Frank. Hey Renee, you’re lookin’ like a magazine I’d like to thumb through. Come see me if you get bored with the birds!”
Once in the arena Renee pushed her way toward the action around a low circular wall. Men were shouting and waving hands full of money wildly in the air. Frank and Danny followed Renee through the crowd of men until they had established a position on the perimeter.
Frank peered into the ring.
A cockfight.
Danny pulled a wad of bills from Renee’s bosom buddy and entered the fray.
“Kill ‘em Leo…kill that UGLY rooster!”
“Two hundred on Leo to survive!”
“I’ve got that!”
“He’s bit! Leo’s bit…but he’s not out!”
“That bird’s a damn rotweiller!”
“Carry On Georgie! Bite ‘em again. Peck ‘im ‘’til he can’t do the three legged rumba no more!”
Georgie made a very quick move on Leo, but Leo proved up to the task, and counter pecked Georgie, catching Georgie’s neck in a lucky glancing blow.
Blood spurted everywhere. Renee began to reach out for the rhythmic red line and smear what she could on Danny’s forehead. Danny laughed wildly and reached for a Tiperillo from his inside jacket pocket. Frank heard a noise and turned to check out the commotion in the back of the room.
The Las Vegas police had arrived.
Frank took Danny with one hand and Renee with the other. He ran around the ring pulling the two along in spite of very vocal protests from the cockfight crowd who’d yet to realize their days of freedom were in jeopardy.
Frank spotted a door.
“Exit code?”
“Two shorts and four longs.”
Frank let go of Dan and Renee and sped forward. He punched the code on the red button. The door swung slowly open, revealing stairs to a roof. Frank turned and waved. He struggled through the door and ran up the stairs, through another door, and to the edge of the roof. Frank peered over the edge, stepped back four steps, positioning himself behind the newly arrived Danny and Renee. He extended his arms and ran forward, taking them all over the side.
Danny spit sand from his mouth, Renee searched for a missing high heel, and Frank took a long look around.
“OK, this way,” Frank said, walking off the sand dune and away from the still audible ruckus of the cockfight.
“Hey,” said Renee. “I could use a bathroom.”
“And I could use a nap.” Danny said.
The trio turned a corner and were on the same back street of Vegas the cops had decide to park their vehicles on before the raid.
Frank broke into a sweat and pushed Renee and Danny onward.
The tattoo parlor smelled of grease paint and cheeseburgers. The tattoo artist had decorated with photos of his clientele, people dying to be looked at and under the impression a good tattoo or three made the looking that much more interesting.
The cops were combing the neighborhood for three people who’d escaped the cockfight sweep by the rooftop door, a fact Frank had picked up from a police band radio inside the tattoo parlor. Vinny the tatoo artist had given them credit for eluding the net and agreed to help. When the police arrived they were so distracted by Vinny’s needlework on the bare breast of a gorgeous redhead sipping a glass of mango juice they didn’t remember to ask for permission to search the back room.
The cops took some photos for their ‘continuing investigation’ and left to continue their search elsewhere. Frank and Danny emerged from the back room. Danny pulled a wad of bills from his inside coat pocket and peeled off a hundred for Vinny.
Danny turned to Frank and said, “This is the last time. Renee and I were talking about leaving the country for Cartagena, the one in Spain, but I’d been doing so well I wanted to try one last round of fights. See if I stayed on a hot streak. Guess you’re the first to know the big picture, kid.”
The trio hooked a right out of the tatoo parlor and headed to the man drag of Vegas.
“I’m never going back to the Journal Express. Made a killing betting on college basketball over the last year. Renee and I are going to travel the world. After Cartagena, we’re thinking of settling in Japan, see how they do things. I have a proposition for you, Frank, and I think you’ll like it.”
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