FAQ Eleven: The Steam Room
Chapter 11
Frank W. Coleman’s solo flight back to Houston the next morning went by in a blur of REMs and a dream of being trapped with Renee. There was a deep lake, a sunken canoe, a single flotation device, and an airplane circling overhead carrying a banner for Vinny’s Tattoo Parlor and Getaway Shack.
Renee would wave to the plane for help while reading Vinny’s phone number and address out loud in varying foreign accents. Frank would laugh, lose his grip on the flotation device, grab Renee to stay afloat, and they would subsequently go under. Then their water ballet would continue with a struggle to reestablish their position on the flotation device while spitting water and eying the distant shore.
Frank awoke as the wheels of the plane touched down. The taxi to the jetway was quick, and within twenty minutes Frank was in his Ford Ranger barreling down the interstate listening to Alice Cooper.
Headed toward the Journal Express.
Hatching the plan that would make his career.
The senior editor’s office was dark, and Frank entered Danny’s former base of operations boldly, switching on the light and striding to Danny’s solid Walnut desk. He picked up the black desk phone and dialed the extension of Howard Pullman.
“Pullman!”
“Hi Howard, this is Frank W. Coleman. Danny told me to give you a message. ‘I’ve just come back from Vegas with a solid gold telephone.’”
“Well, I hope at least there was no bloodshed.”
“A broken heart here and there, but mostly salutes all around.”
“Meet me at the place where the horns never cease to blow and everyone is your brother.”
Great, thought Frank. Another cockfight.
The Downtown Rumor Mill Bar and Grill had a backroom famous throughout Houston. Cold beer, hot lights, and a weekend of serious cock fights. This night, a Thursday, things were calmer by about twelve degrees, and Frank breathed a sigh of relief as he ponied up the dough for a cold draft.
A man of six feet two, long brown hair, a Stetson Hat, and Polmore Italian Cowboy boots approached the bar in long heavy strides. Howard Pullman.
Howard extended his hand and said, “Frank, congratulations on your temporary assignment. You’ll start as my special assistant. We’ll tell anyone who asks about Snyder’s position applicants are being considered, float a few rumors about hiring someone from a Chicago or New York newspaper, maybe even Barbara Evans from the London Tattler, just to get people going. I’ll give you some time, let you make a few decisions, see how you do.”
“Hey,” said Frank, taking Howard’s hand, “I didn’t know Danny that long, but we spent a shitload of time together. I think he’d say, ‘Thanks Howard, now let’s kick some ass and take some names.”
Howard lit a cigar and grabbed a bar menu. “They have good bar-b-q sandwiches here. Hey Coleman, just curious. What would you say?”
Frank signaled for the bartender. “A gambler will tell you, if the odds look good, do it. But a dreamer will tell you, no matter what the odds, you do it. While you see a chance, take it.”
Howard looked at Frank, nodded, raised his just acquired longneck and said, “To Danny and Renee. God bless ‘em.”
Chapter 12
Frank W. Coleman entered his office and said, “Piece, today’s your lucky day. I’ve decided to expand your writing audience.”
“How’s that, Frank?”
“You’re our new guy on the ZFL, the Zooalogical Football League.” Frank took a seat in his leather chair and lit a cigar with a lighter from Bally’s Casino and Boardwalk Hotel in Atlantic City.
“Rock Stars with too much money have decided to start a ne football league. More cheerleaders with less clothes. Longer halftimes, and a flask required to enter the Stadium. I want to see how it plays out.”
“So, do I still have the Crocketts?’
“You do.”
“I might be taking on a little radio gig. How would that be?”
Frank exhaled and narrowed his eyes at Warren.
“Just meet your deadlines, I could care what you do with your spare time.”
Warren turned to go.
“And Piece.”
“Yeah Frank.”
“If you take up sewing let me know. I’ve got a few buttons missing on my Pierre Cardin sweater collection.”
Warren turned and smiled. “You’re one amusing old cockfighter, Frank, you know that.”
“Frank threw the lighter at his closing door, spun in his chair, opened his e-mail, and picked up the phone to order some ribs for lunch.
Who let the Dog out at the Rocket game?
by Warren Piece
Hakeem and rookie sensation Jamal Deadburn played hard last night at the Bush Central Arena. The teamwork between the 6’6’ guard and the aging yet agile last true center in the ZBA was at times dazzling and flashy, at times ponderous and obvious, but at all times too much for the visiting Utah Jacuzzis, who seem to be enjoying their season off.
Last night’s game continued Houston’s defensive surge, shutting down all comers in the style of Don Johnson’s behavior at a Hollywood party…rejection after rejection.
The real fun began after the outcome of the game had been decided, about halfway through the fourth quarter. A dog ran onto the court from somewhere near the press box and proceeded to do an Air Bud. He somehow got the ball from Utah’s John Sharkey (No mean feat, getting Sharkey to give up the ball!) and ran with it to Utah’s end of the court, only missing a dunk because of an intentional foul by Karl Kornpone.
Incensed at what he perceived as a non-call, the dog’s owner, a Houston cab driver going by the name of Steve, charged onto the floor. He, too, was body checked by Kornpone, who was obviously in a WWF kind of mood.
Rudy Tomjohnabitch, after the game, declared the dog the new team mascot for the remainder of the season, although before his owner Steve can attend any more games he must practice proper hygiene.
“I really feel like the city of Houston is getting behind this team, and it delights me that we now have someone associated with the team who’s willing to eat that stuff they serve for the after game buffet.”
The Rockets have tonight off, and face a surging Miami team tomorrow night at the Bush Center.
Chapter 13
Warren took the airport exit at seventy two driving with his knees. He never ceased to be amazed at the Ferrai’s ability to make him feel more powerful than a speeding bullet; however, a conversation on a sunny day with his friends in the Houston police department had convinced him that unless he wanted to waste a lot of time in the holding pen with Willie and the hand jive he would keep his favorite toy in storage except on special occasions, and then fall victim to the temptations of speed in designated areas only, the consequence of being caught speeding outside said areas a set of comp tickets to a Crocketts game and an introduction to the Crockett cheerleader with the worst reputation.
A deal any sports writer could live with.
Kanois stood at the curb, resplendent in some sort of Fillipino ceremonial garb from the past topped off with her favorite Stetson. Warren slid to a stop at the curb scattering travelers and drawing stares from airport security. He hopped out quickly and began apologizing all up and down, claiming his Asian mechanic had overtightened the left front caliper, damn his time. Kanois grabbed him and cut off his oxygen flow for a good twenty seconds and the crowd of weary travelers, obviously suckers for a good love scene, oohhed and ahhhed. Warren and Kanois jumped into the Ferrari and zoomed off, blowing the horn and waving. Once alone, Kanois said, “So, tell me about Bailey Harper.”
The town of Houston flew by the window, a town of big dogs, big men, and the women who used them. Warren inched along in the bumper to bumper traffic as Kanois surfed the net on her palm pilot.
“I think you should tell Bailey you’ll do three hours a day four days a week. She needs you, you know.”
Warren glanced over at Kanois. “Well, I’m thinking of not doing the gig at all. It’s not like I need to spend any more time around women looking for a co-dependant relationship.”
Kanois reached out with her left hand and rubbed Warren’s hair.
“As soon as we’re alone, I’ll show you co-dependency.”
Warren smiled and reached over with his right hand to feel the fabric of Kanois’s ceremonial robe.
“What is this, anyway?”
“I’m going to show it to Dole, see if he thinks we could create a demand by strutting models down the runway in New York’s Bryant Park during the spring show this year in this fabric, a lot less of it, of course. I thought if he saw it on me first he might be more inclined to part with some of his oil money to make the line a reality.”
Warren accelerated as traffic thinned out. “Construction. Houston’s a nice town, let me know when it’s finished.”
“That’s from The Four Seasons with Alan Alda.”
Warren and Kanois laughed. “Hey! I didn’t think you were old enough to know Alan Alda. How freakin’ embarrassing. You caught me stealing lines.”
“Oh sweetie,” Kanois said, “If you start doing sports radio talk you can’t have to have any scruples about stealing material.”
Juanita, the KSPORT receptionist, looked up from her reading to acknowledge Warren and Kanois.
“I’m here to see Bailey Harper.”
Juanita smiled and punched a button on her desk. Through the static a female voice said, “Yes, lamb, what is it?”
Juanita said, “Some guy and his lawyer are here to see you.”
Kanois said, “What makes you think I’m a lawyer?”
“In that outfit, you’re either a lawyer or a bartender, and I thought I’d give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Juanita just broke up with a bartender this morning,” said Bailey, as she appeared in a cacanopy of clicking heels and a cloud of Chanel number 5. She extended her hand and spoke to Kanois, “I don’t believe we’ve met. You’re Warren’s lawyer?”
“No,” Kanois replied, looking Bailey up and down. “His fashion designer. Would YOU like my card?”
“Harsh!” Bailey laughed. “This way boys and girls.”
Bailey took a seat on the leather sofa in her office, crossed her legs while looking at Warren, and indicated two leather wing backed chairs directly across from the sofa.
“Mad Wolf fancied himself the leader of this station, and perhaps he was. Emphasis was. I have the latest Arbitron book, and while the rest of the station has far above acceptable numbers for our advertisers, the afternoon drive slot is beginning to slip. There is one more thing. You’ll probably hear some rumors about Mad Wolf and myself. You know, station gossip. Believe me, I never inspected his private gun collection, if you know what I mean, The man could barely spell his own name, and I have mine to protect, so there you go.”
Kanois said, “Warren only accepts this job if I think it’s a good idea. So you need to add to his offer something along the lines of ‘if the rating goes up more than a percentage point, Warren Piece receives the following:
– an all expense paid trip to Yellowstone Park during the off-season, accompanied by a friend.
-an all expense paid trip to Japan for opening day of baseball season, accompanied by a friend.
-a week in Italy to scout the European basketball finals, accompanied by a friend.
-a year’s supply of high test gasoline for his Ferrari.
-forty two jars of Imus Brothers salsa.
-four tickets to all concerts at Bush Center for a year and a half.
-a framed portrait of Lyndon B. Johnson.
Bailey shifted on the sofa and the office door flew open.
“Hot damn, if this don’t beat the band! You about to give away the candy store, sister? Hi, ya’ll, sorry I’m late, I had a date with the golf pro. She was teaching me how to shoot straight down the fairway, if you know what I mean! Warren, damned glad to see ya’! Who’s this pretty little thang? She belong to you, boy?”
Dole Harper smiled sweetly and executed a mock bow, reaching for Kanois’s hand. When their fingers touched Kanois took his hand and place it on her shoulder.
“This is made from fabric obtainable from only three places in the world. Do you like the way it feels? Because for the right price, I could get you in on a deal I’m working on to add a collection of outfits made of this to the Kanois division of Donna Parrifin’s summer line. This could be the hottest look in the country this year. Dole, we could put your name on it. ‘The Dole Harper Collection.’ What do you think?”
“Well” Dole said, rubbing Kanois’s shoulder, “I think we should have dinner and discuss it. Hell yeah, that’s a damn good idea! Whadya think Bales?”
Bailey looked at Warren and uncrossed and recrossed her legs, revealing a very nice pair of silk garters. “Well why don’t we make it a foursome?”
Warren sat in the passenger seat of his red Ferrari while Kanois drove through Houston traffic headed toward Famoulouge-erie, a French restaurant in one of Houston’s many glass towers that served high class chow to the shitkickers. Houston flew by as Kanois weaved in and out of traffic in a style that could get her a NASCAR sponsor. The smell of oil wafted momentarily through the car’s black leather interior.
Warren said to Kanois, “The radar detector is awfully quiet. Wonder where all the boys are?”
“Probably getting fitted for their summer spurs and chaps.” Kanois laughed as she spun toward one of the exits that led to downtown Houston.
Warren continued to look out the window. “Early on in this dinner slash negotiation I think we should get tough with Dole. He seems to be the one voting for taking down the tower of the radio station and putting up a K-Mart.”
“Let me handle Dole,” Kanois said as she almost sideswiped a chick on a razor scooter. “I’ve got his number, and besides, I think he’s kinda cute.”
“You fashion babes are far too visual. I suggest you watch for his hesitation move. A special old boy like Dole has bound to have a really good hesitation move.”
Kanois pulled to a stop in front of the valet and opened her door. “If his brain is in a splint that just makes him easier to take. Let’s go play with the rich kids.”
The table was by the window, offering a spectacular view of Houston at night, all lights with no hint of the dreamers and fakers populating the fabulously successful oil town. Somewhere down there Dan the Alaskan Malamut and his owner Abdul the cab driver were making a living driving former pedestrians to their next point in time.
Warren sat down, then got up as Bailey and Dole approached and pulled Bailey’s chair out for her. “Well, our watches seemed to be synchronized” Bailey laughed, winking at Warren.
Kanois looked at Dole, smiled and said, “We seem to be underway.”
Dole pulled Kanois’s chair out for her and then took his place. “I never talk business when I can delay talking about business. Hell why don’t we get some drinks over here and avoid work a little longer.”
A waiter appeared and Dole ordered a Bourbon neat. Warren ordered a banana daiquiri. Kanois ordered a burgundy. Bailey ordered peppermint schnapps.
“Well,” said Kanois,” Clearly we’re all on the same page.”
Warren took off his shoe and looked down at his menu while rubbing Dole’s leg up and down three times. He replaced his shoe without being obvious and looked up in time to catch Dole smiling his best right here right now smile at Kanois.
Kanois kicked Warren under the table and Warren smacked his fist on the table and shouted, “Where are those damn drinks!” in attempt to hide the pain.
“Sorry, I’m practicing outrageous behavior in preparation for my new gig.”
The waiter appeared, placed their drinks on the table, and disappeared.
“Bailey and I have a little bet,” Dole stated.
“But first, a toast. Here’s to the beginning of beautiful relationships.”
“Here, here.” cheered Bailey.
They clinked glasses and Dole said, “I bet my monthly annuity payment you, Mr. Piece, you’re a nice guy who’s gotten in a little over his head.”
Dole leaned forward and was suddenly very serious. “I know people in Houston, and I know people outside of Houston. Powerful people, Mr. Piece. I can arrange for your little sports column to get a few awards, raise your profile, keep you in clover, maybe even make you famous enough so you could date an American girl, no offense, mame.”
“I think you should agree to my offer, boy, because I’ve got plans for what Daddy left, and none of them include you.”
The waiter arrived to take dinner orders. Warren stood, put his napkin on the table, and said to Kanois, “You coming?”
“Oh sit down! Junior here doesn’t have controlling interest of his daddy’s public holdings, that’s something I looked up on the Internet. Besides, they have great fried shrimp here.”
“Fried shrimp? Waiter, take this irritating alcoholic art drink away and bring me a Jack and Coke. I’ll take the fried shrimp and cornbread for dinner. Dole, go pound salt up your ass.”
Dole sat back, grinned, then in one motion leaned foward and threw his bourbon in Warren’s face.
Through Kanois’s giggles Dole said to the waiter, “Donald, I think our friend is done engaging in wishful thinking. Please show em’ the door.”
Bailey looked at Warren as he picked up his linen napkin and wiped his face. Warren said, “Kanois, you can leave the Ferrari at the garage. Your Mitsubishi is parked in my spot. Bailey, see you tomorrow at two o’clock. At KSPORT.”
Warren threw his napkin onto the table, turned and walked away without another word as Dole shouted, “Go ahead. Walk away, YOU FAGGOTT!!!”
Warren used his cell phone to call The Sarge.
“Hello.”
“Hi. This is Warren Piece. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Hi Warren, no I was just watching Frasier.”
“Perth, I need your help in an official way.”
Perth, desk sergeant for the fourteenth precinct in Houston asked, “I hope this is a favor that can be done before ten o’clock, and I hope it involves you giving me a complete physical sometime after eleven.”
“All that.” Warren answered.
“OK, shoot,” Perth said.
“There will be a man emerging from the Famoulouge-erie in around an hour. He’ll be with an Asian woman and his sister. He’ll probably be highly intoxicated. Can you find some reason for him to spend some time as a guest of the city?”
“Well, said Perth, “Let’s see if he gets behind the wheel and makes our lives easier. Call me back in ten minutes.”
“How about I pick up a bottle of red wine and come to your place in thirty minutes?”
“See ya sweetie.”
Warren called Abdul’s cell phone.
“Hi Abdul, this is Warren Piece. How about a ride.”
“For you my friend, yes. Dan misses you.”
“I’m outside the Famoulouge-erie and I need to go to Washington Street in the highlands.”
“I’ll be there in three minutes, I happen to be close!”
Warren disconnected his cell and muttered to himself in Dole’s Houston twang, “I know people…powerful people.”
Abdul slowly pulled alongside Warren and rolled the passenger side window down. “Hello, Mr. Warren, climb in and we go.”
Warren climbed in the back and rubbed Dan the Alaskan Malamutes head. “Hi Abdul. Hi Dan.”
“Woof, woof.”
That’s right Dan, you were a hit the other night at the game. Did you have a good time, Abdul?” Warren asked.
“Oh, yeah, told me wife and daughter all about it. We might even buy tickets next time. I think Dan could not go again though.”
“Hey,” Warren laughed. “He’s the team mascot. Remember?”
“Oh, Mr. Tommyjohnabitch was serious about all that talking?”
“Well,” Warren said, “I haven’t talked to him since, but I’ll call him tomorrow and check it out. Oh, wait the Rockets are out of town for a week. I’ll put it on my calendar. We’ll get it done.”
Abdul turned up KSPORT radio. A fan was calling to complain about Alex Rodriguiz’s refusal to run wind sprints with the rest of the team because his wallet was bumping against his hip and giving him a blister. Warren put his hand on Dan’s nose and said, “Hey Dan, look out the window. We’re moving through one of the wildest cities known to man. Outlaws and people who wish they were. Houston. Where they make the kids sweet and the women sweeter.
The door of the townhouse swung open and Perth stuck her head around it, smiled, and waved Warren in. Warren stepped in and Perth quietly closed the door. Warren turned and looked at Perth who was wearing nothing but a smile. Warren held his arms out and Perth walked into them.
“You’ve caught me at a bad time,” Perth said, “but we’ll make the best of it.”
Neil Young sang from the stereo, a song about a cowgirl. Perth and Warren shared some physical personal secrets. Neil sang on.
“You got any ice to go with this Jack Daniels and Coke?” Warren asked.
Perth said, “Last I checked, the ice was in the freezer next to the ore Ida shoestring potatoes.”
“Can I fix you anything?” asked Warren.
“Yeah, pop a can of V-8 for me, and pour a touch of vodka in it.” Perth answered.
Warren fixed the drinks and walked to the sofa where Perth was surfing through the TV channels.
The phone rang.
“Hello.” Perth said.
She listened for a moment. “Really. He said that about your dear mother? Is it true? No, just kidding.”
Warren sipped his drink and watched Lyle Lovett on Austin City Limits sing a song about a pygmy pony and a boat.
Perth said into the phone, “Did you need help? Well your eye will be better by tomorrow, meanwhile make sure he gets his lawyer. This is more than we expected, and we don’t want to blow this. And Mackie, thanks.”
Perth set the Sony portable on the end table and looked at Warren with a steady gaze while sipping her V-8. “We found the gun that killed Ben Harper. Your buddy.”
“Dole?” Warren said. “I’m not surprised.”
“No, your other buddy. Kanois.”
Warren and Perth entered the 23rd precinct police station by separate doors in an attempt to avert any association crisis. Warren approached the on duty desk sergeant and waited to be recognized. The sergeant was on the phone. “Did you recognize the signature on the ticket? Did he offer you money? Well tow the basterd and if he gives you a problem show him a five knuckle traffic citation with my blessing.”
The sergeant hung up the desk phone and fixed his cobalt blue eyes on Warren Piece.
“And what can I do for you”
Warren answered, “I’m here to see about bailing out Kanois Richards.”
“You’ll have to see Officer McGee in Central booking. Through that door.”
The sergeant pointed to a door a few feet to his left. Warren went through, walked down a long grey hallway occupied by several suspects and witnesses trying desperately to hold onto their credibility, through another door and then to another high desk. He spoke as the officer behind the desk looked up.
“Kanois Richards?”
Without batting one of her brown eyes Officer McGee said flatly, “Five hundred thousand dollars.”
“I’ll put that up,” said a voice behind Warren.
He turned to see Bailey Harper approaching the desk.
Kanois appeared, escorted by a female corrections officer and carrying a plastic bag. She was wearing jeans and a white cotton top. Warren asked, “When did you change clothes?”
Kanois ignored Warren and turned to Bailey, “Thank you, Miss Harper.”
Bailey took Kanois’s arm and they walked away, leaving Warren standing at the desk. The sergeant behind him asked, “Anything else?”
Perth met Warren in the parking lot. He spotted her leaning against her Chevy mini-truck filing her nails.
“So, did you get her immunity?”
“I’m not sure if I should be laughing or crying.”
“It’s ok, sweetness, I heard Bailey and Kanois talking as they were filling out the bail forms. They’re off to have a little girl chat. Something about spending the weekend shopping for wireless underwear and phones.”
Warren smiled and kissed Perth on the forehead.
“Dole?”
“Superman is sleeping it off in a cell we reserve for brothers of Sam Houston. He’s gonna be a bear when he wakes up, but for now, he might as well be in a coma.”
Warren walked around to the passenger side of the mini-truck and climbed in. “I think our work here is done.”
Warren’s cell phone rang three seven times before he managed to dig the Nokia from his pants pocket.
“Hello, Hello,” he said into the air to clear his throat.
Warren clicked the answer button. “Hello.”
“So I’m reading this article in Daughter’s of Sam Houston magazine called “When your man starts shoving you aside should you shoot him or knife him?”
“Kanois! How’s every little thing? Where did you get that gun? Why didn’t you speak to me at the booking desk? I think being cool in a situation like this is highly overrated. I don’t need a flashy story, just one that’s interspersed with the truth, something I can absorb at three in the morning.”
Kanois said, “Warren, I’ve been trying to help you with your radio act. Bailey and her lawyer want you to come over and finalize the deal so you can go on the air today! Isn’t that exciting?!”
Warren reached for his pants as he glanced over at Perth. She was starting to stir. “OK, why not. Should I bring my 16 gauge pump or the Remington 20 gauge automatic with the kick pad and custom engraving on the stock?”
“That would be in reference to the gun charge?”
“That would be in reference to the gun charge.”
“I’ll have to discuss that with you on a secure line. Do you know where Bailey lives?”
Warren walked to Perth’s side of the bed. “Everybody who’s anybody knows where Bailey Harper lives.”
“As I said…” Kanois laughed.
Warren disconnected the phone, reached down, kissed Perth on the forehead, scribbled a quick note, and left the Sarge to her beauty rest.
Abdul pulled to a stop in front of the Sarges’s condo.
“Good morning Mr. Warren. Where are we going today?”
“Hi Abdul, thanks for coming on short notice. Hi Dan.”
“Woof, Woof” barked Dan.
“I need to be taken to Bailey Harper’s estate. Wake me up when we get there. I’m going to dream of clear running streams, buzzer beaters, fresh baked crescent rolls, and the jukebox at the Waffle House.”
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