Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Safe Space
Tanja Cilia
Today, I launched Riviera, a Staycation Resort Pool in a vast tract of land that was donated to me by someone I helped. It is a Safe Place for the residents of the Women’s Shelter, and other women, who may only come here through a recommendation. Because of who I am and what I do, the fees people pay are low – or non-existent.
My sister cannot understand how I managed to pull this off. She was always telling me that my writing would never pay, and that I should find a real job. Ironically, she often turns up at my house with one of the books I write under a nom-de-plume; it would kill her to know that she gushes about my exquisite vocabulary and knowledge of the human psyche.
The only thing that unites us is a frightful sibling rivalry. She says I am a useless dreamer, a heathen, a sloth. She has never hesitated to point out her superiority; straight As in examination results, and hair that was blonder and more luxurious, when we were children, and a bigger SUV, a forthcoming holiday, and a bigger house, now that we are adults. Am I bothered, though.
She asks me Twenty Questions not because she is interested in what I have to say, but because they she can’t wait to divulge her own news; she wants to see me get jealous…or envious… or resentful… or sad. It infuriates her when she sees I am as unperturbed as ever.
She asks, as if she does not know, whether I am still working ‘there’ and then tells me of her latest promotion. She asks whether my son has achieved a pass mark in all subjects, and then she trots out her daughter’s scholarship titbit… at which point I cannot help smirking.
She insists that every stitch all the members of her household wear, each day, must be laundered. I counter it is because their sweat stinks.
One day, to shut her up, once and for all, I agreed to go with her to a Prayer Meeting… which would, she said, motivate me to be less laid back.
The lethargic spinning of the hanging fan blades, whirling over the heads of the congregation, was hypnotising me, as they interrupted the neon light of the rubes attached to the ceiling, and caused the disco balls to sway ever so slightly, creating nauseating patterns on the walls and the mirrors.
The place was stuffy, and smelled of stale sweat and a million different deodorants, perfumes, and fabric conditioners, all fighting for dominance. I fanned my face with my prayer leaflet, causing the old biddy behind me to poke me in the back and tell me I was a sacrilegious upstart.
The cacophony of Halleluiahs! and random conversations was the last straw. I ran out of the hangar, nearly colliding with a cyclist, and threw up in the middle of the street.
As luck would have it, I knew the woman. Sylvia and I go back a long way – since before we were born, in fact (even our mothers were schoolmates). She asked me what the matter was, whether I was pregnant, and whether she should call for an ambulance, all in one breath.
I explained that it was the atmosphere in the hangar-turned-prayer-hall that had affected me thus badly. She threw back her head and laughed that joyful raucous laugh of hers which had earned her several detentions at school.
“You must adopt a worthwhile hobby. You must become a witch… like me!” she said. “Religion is the opium of the people!”
“What? You, a witch? Oh, come on! Witches are usually…”
“Thin, and they wear black, like Gothic, but not quite, right? Not my kind, they aren’t! I am a White Witch. That is why I said it is a hobby, not a job.”
“Wait, what? I do not understand.”
“Black witches go about making hexes and wreaking damage. White Witches like me do good wherever they go – they help others in any way they can. They cook, sew, make crafts… and we are rewarded by the Universe for it…”
“Hmmm. This sounds like a good way to spend time – much better than listening to repetitive, senseless sermons, and attending interminable services… And you always have been a selfless person.”
At this juncture, she mounted her bike. “Think about it. If you’re still interested, give me a call and I’ll set you up!” And with that, she cycled merrily away, ever so gracefully, despite her considerable girth.
This was an offer I could not refuse. I called Sylvia the very next day, and she gave me a list of terms to look up, which I duly did. I discovered that not all witches – Black or White – belong to a coven. Solitary witches are just what it says on the tin. And then, of course, there are the Green Witches and the Kitchen Witches. All these use blessings, charms, incantations, laying of hands, prayers, and songs to make people happier and better.
In addition, Solitary Witches pick-and-mix elements they choose, because they have no canon to follow. That suits me just fine, because eclecticism allows me to combine traditions and… well, stuff like candles, crystals, fruits, herbs, leaves, minerals, oils, pebbles, roots, seeds, shells, spices, stones, vegetables and more, for my Natural Magic lotions and potions. Suddenly, I realised that I had already subliminally decided to become a White Witch.
In the course of my research, I discovered that in October, 2019, the New York Times published a piece entitled When Did Everybody Become a Witch?. The writer stressed that “White Magick” is a noble thing, necessary for the unstable, uncertain world to run smoothly, toward the greater good – and, perhaps, to counteract the doings of the black side. The Atlantic, in the April 2020 article Why Witchcraft is on the Rise, said that witchcraft rises in popularity as faith in institutions, churches, and the establishment wanes – exactly as had happened to me, albeit on a much grander scale.
At school I was always being told off for having my head in the clouds. Now, I have found my niche in life – the fact that I am sensitive to images, sounds, smells, and sensations makes me the ideal White Witch.
In the provincial, nay parochial, community where I live, no one apart from Sylvia, knows that I am a White Witch. I explain the fact that I no longer go to Prayer Meetings by saying that the last time I went, I felt sick, and that I have developed claustrophobia. Meanwhile, I travel on my right-hand path, knowing instinctively that I am doing the right thing, because each night I dream of one of my ancestors giving me the thumbs-up sign.
Being a White Witch is easy – for me, anyway. My Sacred Space includes a cute table – I refuse to call it an altar, just as I refuse to use terms like Wicca or Pagan – draped with a fluorescent yellow scarf. Sylvia said I should put air, earth, fire, spirit and water on it – not literally, of course. So, I have a helium balloon, a bowl of soil, a scented candle and an unopened miniature bottle of vodka from the collection I inherited from my father, which is so old that some of it has somehow disappeared… spirited away, so to speak.
I also put seasonal fruits and vegetables on it, or things I find on my walks – a feather; a piece of bark; a dead insect; the moulted skin of a serpent…
We are good people. Black witches are nasty, destructive and vindictive. As for us, we connect with Mother Earth and Sister Nature in every which way we can… we watch a leaf float to the ground, we smell the newly-tilled soil, we feed feral cats, who do not fear us, and we move snails and insects out of danger. We are in tune with the power of cycles of the Universe, and we use the energy of Earth to help others, not to gain wealth or power for ourselves; we work with them, never against them.
So far, in these last few months that I have been a White Witch, I have helped several people, without their knowledge.
My friend Rita’s daughter has been trying for a baby for these last eleven years – my wild heather honey spell (I kept Kunzite, Morganite, Pink Fluorite, Pink Opal, Pink Spinel, Pink Tourmaline, Rhodonite, Rose Quartz, Rubellite, Star Garnet, and Star Ruby in it for a week, under sunlight and moonlight) – means she is now pregnant with girl triplets.
Helene was sick and tired of commuting to work each morning – so, my Peaches & Cream charm…worked like a charm! She was offered a plum job – C.E.O., no less, at the new Supermarket franchise opening just across the road from her house.
The Women’s Shelter needed funds… and (because I don’t believe in money-for-nothing) I cast a spell with lentils, poppy seeds, and oyster shells… and they received offers from world-famous brands of handcrafted jewellery and candles, in order that they work for them. The Mother Superior of the Nuns entrusted with the care of the women spoke to me at the Clinic, and said she couldn’t fathom out how, from halfway across the world, the two Companies had found out about them. It was a cinch, I whispered – and she misheard me and replied, “Yes, we clinched the deal online just this morning!” And then there was the woman who was going to be cheated out of her inheritance of millions of €uro by the greedy new wife of her father. I fixed that – and she donated the area on which Riviera is built. When all is said and done, being a White Witch has done oodles of good for my self-esteem, too. The unworldliness of it all and the aesthetical appeal of “a place for everything and everyone” almost makes me glad that went to the prayer meeting… but not quite. I practice Mindfulness, and I take each day as it comes.
It’s hot somewhere, and it’s time to cool off with the August 2024 WTS prompt. Thanks to all who submitted stories in June and those who read their work!
Now for August 2024!
Don’t Forget: The word limit is now approximately 5000 + words. We grant some leeway in word count as these stories are written for fun and practice, not for competition. Also, we will no longer do minor editing on these stories.
WU! created this project with two goals: providing a writing exercise and promoting our author sites to increase reader traffic. When you post your story elsewhere, please include a link to the Writers Unite! blog. By doing so, you are also helping promote your fellow members and Writers Unite! We encourage all of you to share each other’s stories to help us grow. Thanks!
The August 2024Prompt!
Images are free use and require no attribution. Image by Michelle_Raponi from Pixabay.
Here’s the plan:
You write a story of up to 5000 words + (minimum 500 words) or a poem (Minimum 50 words) based on and referring to the image provided and post it on the author site you wish to promote. Don’t forget to give your story a title. (Note: You do not have to have a website/blog/FB author page to participate. Your FB profile or WordPress link is acceptable.)
Please edit these stories. WU! will no longer conduct minor editing on your story, so please send in edited work. WU! reserves the right to reject publishing the story if poorly written.
The story must have a title and author name and must include the link to the site you wish to promote.
Send the story and link to the site via Facebook Messenger to Deborah Ratliff or email to writersunite16@gmail.com. Put “Write the Story” in the first line of the message.
Please submit your story by the 25th day of the month.
WU! will post your story on our blog and share it across our platforms— FB, Twitter, Instagram, etc. The story will also be available in the archives on the WU! blog, along with the other WTS entries.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Exit Otis Manning
Kenneth Lawson
The rain suffocated the city like a heavy wet blanket that someone kept pouring more water on. The air hung with a dampness that seeped into every pore of the city. The sun had long ago given up on plowing through the clouds. It now only made half-hearted attempts at lighting the day.
I stood under the awning across the street from an old corner store, which was quickly losing the battle to keep water out of it. Through the fogged window of the bookstore behind me, I could see figures scurrying around, picking books from lower shelves in an effort to keep as dry as possible. I had no such luck. My waterlogged raincoat had ceased keeping me dry, but I wrapped it tightly around me anyway.
The restaurant door between the corner store and the pawnshop next to it was the real focus of my attention. Jake Newcome would soon be exiting his restaurant and walking the two blocks to the same pool hall he’d been the other night.
I had no trouble spotting him. Even in the pouring rain, he still managed to look neat and put together. His hat and coat looked sharp even in the pouring rain.
He stood on the door stoop for a minute like he was gathering the courage to venture into the rain again.
From where I stood across the street, I could imagine him swearing to himself as he headed for the corner store. As he ducked into the store, I crossed the street and stood by the restaurant door where he had exited. Within a few minutes, he came out of the store with a paper bag shoved into one pocket of his overcoat and headed down the street.
I stayed at a safe distance behind him. At the corner, he crossed the street to the next block. The rain had driven away any pedestrians who didn’t have to be on the streets. It was easy to keep him in sight without getting too close.
While we walked in the rain, I cast my mind back to a day ago. I was in my favorite bar, nursing a cold beer. The door jungled as it opened and closed. I didn’t pay attention to the noise until a shadow blocked the dim light coming through the front window. I looked up to see Otis Manning standing next to me at the bar.
Out of habit, I glared at him. “What do you want?” I gulped more beer.
“Man, I’m really sorry.” He tried to sound apologetic, but I knew better.
“Yeah, right. You’ll be sorry if Jake finds you.” His mustache twitched as he remembered how mean Jake was.
“Look, man, you gotta hide me.”
“And have Jake after me, too? No Thanks. You fucked up, you deal with it.”
I stared at what was left of my beer, trying to ignore him. He shrugged his shoulders and started to walk away.
“Okay, Otis. Where is it?” I turned to face him.
“Where is what?”
“The case. Stupid. Where is it?”
“Oh, that. I hid it.”
“You hid the case?” He nodded his head yes vigorously.
He stepped close to me. “Shhh, not so loud.”
“You know what he’d do to you for a thousand dollars, much less that case?” He swallowed hard and nodded his head yes.
“Okay, let’s get out of here.” I tossed a couple of bucks on the bar as I got up.
I followed him outside. The midmorning sun came down the street, reflecting off the windows of the parked cars, blinding me and reminding me why I shouldn’t drink in the morning. The sidewalks were empty, but that didn’t stop us from constantly checking to see if anyone was following us. My car was parked about halfway down the block, so we didn’t have far to go.
The car doors slammed, sending a muffled echo through the empty streets. No one appeared to notice. As I started the car, a sudden chill ran up and down my neck, causing me to hesitate while my body caught up with itself.
The car roared to life as I pumped on the gas. Once we were well away from the bar and Jake and his reach, I started to breathe again. Sooner or later, probably sooner, Jake would start looking for Otis and, by extension, me. We had been seen leaving the bar together. Jake would decide I knew what he did with the bag since I was with Otis, which I didn’t. But you couldn’t tell Jake anything, once he made up his mind, which made me in this just as deep as Otis.
A half-hour later, I pulled into a deserted parking lot. The hotel next to it had closed several years ago. A few abandoned or burned-out cars sat scattered about among the weeds that had pushed through the cracks in the cement and taken over most of the lot.
Shutting down the car, I turned in the seat to face Otis.
“What the hell did you do?” I knew that Otis had found something he never should have, and worse yet, he had taken it. “Tell me exactly what happened, and don’t leave anything out. And don’t lie to me.” My voice was much calmer than I felt inside.
I glared at him. He squirmed in the seat, looking past me out the window, not wanting to look directly at me. His lips twitch slightly, causing his mustache to move in odd ways. I waited for his answer.
~~~
Redd Robinson glared at me. I had to make sure he believed me. A lot was riding on him accepting my story. I swallowed hard and squirmed in my seat, looking out the window to keep from looking at him. At that moment, I wanted a drink more than anything. My throat was dry, and my mouth didn’t want to work right. Eventually, I looked kinda sideways at Redd and got some words out.
“Well, you see, it was like this. I was at the pool hall, over on tenth, you know Lucky Balls?” Redd nodded yes.
“Jake came in with a couple of his guys—you know, the brutes who follow him around? They played pool for quite a while, mostly letting Jake win. After a while, another guy comes in. I was at a corner table with Frankie, and he was playing, so I watched what was going on. This guy comes in carrying a case. You know, like a bag or a leather bag of some kind.”
I took some time trying to remember and catch my breath. I’d been talking so fast I forgot to breathe. Redd had shifted back in his seat and seemed to have relaxed a little once I started talking. By now, I was starting to remember more, but I was still dying for a drink.
“So, Jake and this other guy disappear into the back room. His two guys wait in the pool hall. They come back out a few minutes later and shake hands. Everyone seems happy from the way they act.”
“Okay then, how’d you get in trouble with Jake?”
“After everyone left, I went to find the piss room, and there was a case lying by the door to the office. I picked it up, and, hell, I don’t know, I took off with it. It was heavy, so I figured there must have been something valuable in it. I heard later that they came back looking for the case. I’d been seen going back there right after they left, and not again. I guess they figured I took it, which I did.”
I was out of breath again. My breathing and heart raced, and I tried to calm down and breathe. I was getting good at it.
***
Otis looked like he was going to have a heart attack in front of me. For a second, it occurred to me it might be best for all concerned if he died of a heart attack, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Once he started to talk, the story rushed out of him like a waterfall. He only stopped once to catch his breath when I questioned him. I let him talk, marveling at the level of stupidity he’d achieved when he said he’d taken the case.
Straightening up in the seat behind the wheel, I looked at him. “Okay, what’s in the case? And where is it?” He leaned back into the seat as I started the car.
“Papers. From what I could tell, it looked like a lot of legal stuff. Jake’s name was on a lot of them, and I recognized some other names. All legal stuff, like deeds or something, I don’t know that shit. It’s all Greek to me.”
“You may wish it were before this done. Where is it?” I pulled into traffic and headed towards downtown. Jake’s stomping grounds were fast approaching. As soon as we arrived, someone would get word to him, and he’d be after us.
“No, don’t go down there,” Otis pleaded once he realized where we were. I pulled over and turned to look at him directly.
“We’re both in a world of shit because of your stupidity, both in taking that case in the first place, then coming to see me in public. Jake will not only want the case and its papers back but to make an example of us. So, tell me exactly where the case is, or I will drop you off in the middle of his patch, and I’ll leave the city forever.”
Otis nervously looked out the windows, even twisted round to look out the rear window.
“Right now, no one cares who we are….” I let it tail off. The implication is that Jake’s men would find him if we went further into his territory.
His mustache twitched again as he tried to find his voice. “Over on seventy-second, the brownstones. You know the ones that are boarded up?” I nodded and started the car, turning left at the next block and heading in that direction.
“I hid the case in a back room, under some old planks and a pile of old clothes.”
“You remember which building and floor?” He nodded yes, but the expression on his face didn’t instill confidence.
It didn’t take long to find the old brownstones that had once been the pride of the city. Now, only the hulls of buildings used for party pads, drug hangouts, and anything you wouldn’t do at home. There had been numerous dead bodies found there over the years. It was not a nice place to be, even in broad daylight.
He pointed out which building the case was in. I parked in front of it. I followed him into the alley between two buildings. The stench of old trash and rodents living on it was almost unbearable. He knew exactly where the old door had been pried open and pushed it closed again. Without a second glance, he shoved it and led the way into what had been a hall but now piled with debris from the decaying building falling in on itself and the remains of the transients who had used it over the years.
I wasn’t in any hurry to follow him into the building, but I didn’t want to lose sight of him. The narrow path led to a set of stairs, which looked almost usable. Otis barely noticed as he quickly mounted the stairs, and in a minute, he was on the second floor. I ran to catch up with him.
On the second-floor landing, he paused for a minute, looking around. Spotting an open door, he pushed his way through and straight for a pile of clothes and debris on the far side of the room. I didn’t enter the room for more than a foot or so. I watched him quickly remove the clothes, boards, and fallen plaster pile. He stood and turned toward me and held up a large leather bag.
“Okay, good, let’s get out of here.” It took more minutes than I liked to get back to the side door and into daylight.
I hoped no one noticed us as I pulled out onto the street. Otis started to open the bag while I drove. I told him not to but to throw it in the back seat and pretend it wasn’t there, which he did.
Returning from the brownstone to the other side of town took far too long. I had my eyes on the rear-view mirror the entire time, but as near as I could tell, we weren’t being followed.
We drove around for about half an hour. Part of me wanted to stop and look inside the case now, but I decided we needed to be far away from prying eyes. The only stop we made was at a small convenience store, where I got gas and a couple of cold drinks and snacks.
I finally settled on an abandoned warehouse down on the waterfront. I figured there would be no one around, much less anyone who could recognize us. Parking the car in the shade of the building, I shut it down and opened the windows to let the breeze off the water come in.
I turned to face Otis. “Okay, let’s have it.”
He reached across the back of the seat, fumbling around a little. He finally got hold of the case and pulled it onto the front seat. The bag had a top flap-style lock snap that held it closed. The case was leather and well-worn, with scuff marks along all the bottom edges and marks from being opened thousands of times. To my surprise, it wasn’t locked and opened right up. I couldn’t read the faded initials stamped into the flap just above the hold-down strap in this light.
I ignored Otis and handed him another cold drink to keep him busy while I looked into the case. Inside was a large stack of papers neatly slid into a back pocket, and several file folders lay in the main section—a couple of small pocket notebooks in the bottom of the bag.
Glancing at the papers in the back of the case told me they were legal papers without taking them out, as they were longer than regular paper. The cream color and their heaviness confirmed my suspicions when I pulled them out.
The top paper was a cover sheet with the lawyer’s name and address printed neatly across the top, along with several other names printed below the lawyers. In the center of the paper, in a fancy scrollwork lettering, was the word Deed. Flipping the pages, I learned it was the deed for the largest water reservoir in the county. I had always assumed it was owned by the county or state, not a private individual.
The rest of the papers were proposals for various projects connected with the land surrounding the water. I recognized Jake’s name on some of the project proposals and several other politicians and big business owners in the county. Some of the council members had co-signed several of the projects.
No wonder Jake wanted this case back. Not to mention whoever it belonged to. I had to assume he was in hot water with the people involved with the deals in the case. I stuffed the papers back into the case as neatly as I could and in the same order as I found them. I reached for my cold drink and thought for several minutes. There were several ways to play this, but I wanted to know more first.
The next thing to do was figure out what to do with Otis. I couldn’t stash him anywhere. It had to be somewhere Jake wouldn’t look, at least not immediately.
I knew a guy who wouldn’t ask questions. I threw the car in gear and headed out.
“Where we going?”
“Shut the fuck up! I’m going to try to save your stupid ass.” He sank back onto his seat, leaning against the door.
An hour later, I pulled into a tree-lined driveway behind big gates. Hedges growing along the fence hid property behind it. Otis perked up when we rolled up the driveway.
“Stay,” I told him as I got out.
I barely got around the front of the car before the front door opened. A tall, lean man came down the steps to greet me. His hands were out to shake my mine by the time he reached me. He led me into the house.
“Redd, we thought you left town ages ago.”
“Sometimes I wish I had.”
He nodded towards the car. “So, another lost soul to save?”
“No, a stupid idiot who got me into a jam with Jake.”
“Enough said. I don’t want to know any more than I need.” His hands went up to stop me from saying any more as he said it.
“His name is Otis Manning, and he’s annoying and stupid, but I need him alive for the foreseeable future.”
“Understood. Bring him in.”
I opened the car door. “Come.” He got out of the car and followed me reluctantly. Up close in the right light, one could tell he was older than he looked.
“Otis Manning, meet Ronald. You do everything he says. Don’t even fart without permission.”
“Ronald, you have my permission to do whatever it takes to keep him in line. No TV, no radio, newspapers, no phones. You know the drill.”
Ronald nodded yes as he shook my hand, leading me back to the front door.
“Good luck. Keep safe.” I nodded yes as I went out the door.
Back in the car, I sat for a minute. Otis was in for a surprise when he met Elisabeth. I grinned at the thought as I started the car.
It was dark as I reached town. I couldn’t return to my place, so I headed for a cheap motel on the other side of town. It was starting to rain when I reached the motel.
The clerk behind the counter in the main office looked bored out of his mind. The TV was playing with the sound down in the background. A pile of pulp magazines and books lay on the desk behind the counter. The top one was lying open. I recognized the cover as Mickey Spillane’s “My Gun is Quick,” the latest Mike Hammer novel.
I paid for my room and moved my car to the spot in front of my door. The room was small but neat. Once I checked the room, I headed back to the office. The rain continued falling hard, and I pulled my jacket around me. After dragging the kid from the world of Mike Hammer, I asked about the nearest place to eat. He pointed back the way I had come, telling me the closest restaurant was two blocks away, just off the new expressway. I thanked him and headed back to the car.
The windshield wipers worked hard to keep enough rain off the window that I could see where I was going. Thankfully, the neon sign glittered in the rain. Parking as near the door as I could, I dashed into the restaurant.
The restaurant, with chandeliers and linen tablecloths, was fancier than I expected. However, I was hungry, so this would do. The hostess greeted me and took me to a table in the back. I ordered coffee, which was excellent and strong. I ordered a twelve-ounce steak, a baked potato, and other fixings.
I took my time to enjoy the steak and potato. It was the best meal I’d had in a long time. I didn’t know when I would get to eat like that again with all that was going on. After polishing off a second cup of coffee, I paid the bill and returned to the motel, exhausted and needing a hot shower and sleep.
~~~
I rented the room for a week, but when I left that morning, I took what little I had with me. My first stop was coffee and food. Then I found a Goodwill store to pick up some clothes. There was no way I could go home to get any. Afterward, I needed someplace to look at the papers and figure out exactly what was going on. The rain was still going back and forth between drizzle and pouring.
As I drove past the library, I realized there wasn’t a better place to hole up and go through the papers in the bag. Doubling around the block, I parked as close to the door as possible.
At the front desk, I asked the clerk if there was somewhere I could do some research without being disturbed. She led me to one of the small study rooms they had for students. I pulled the blinds on the windows, settled in, and started by sorting all the papers according to either the type or the names on them. In the bottom of the bag, I found a neatly wrapped package that contained at least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. No wonder Jake Newman wanted his bag back.
Porter Construction was listed as the construction company on most project proposals and was known for its Mob connections. I risked leaving everything in the room while I checked in the city reference section of the library. I found a book listing all the incorporated businesses in the city. I learned that Newman Industries, wholly owned by Jake Newman, was listed as a major stockholder, and he served as an officer at Porter Construction.
The plan was clear to me now. The money came from the Mob as their buy-in on the projects. So I not only had Jake and his cronies looking for me, but also the Mob, who wanted their money back. I was in more trouble than I thought I was.
I got paper and pens from the front desk and wrote out the scheme as best I could understand it, along with all the names of the players and any dates listed for the project proposals. The next question was how to get out of this mess. I could just give the case and papers and money back to Jake, but nothing was stopping him from killing both of us. Unless… I knew what to do.
The clerk at the front desk directed me to the copy machine. I gave her what money I had to pay for the copies and asked for privacy. It took several hours of fussing and copying. Eventually, I had three copies of every paper in the case. I even copied the money stacks.
I packed everything into the bag, which I could barely close, and left the library.
Hopefully, I had what I needed to stay alive.
The rain was still pouring when I left the library. By now, the streets were starting to flood. I hadn’t eaten since early morning, stopped for a burger, and returned to my room—time to decide what to do the next day.
~~~
The following day, I stopped at the post office and got two large mailers for papers. Once I had both packages ready, I made the call. I told Jake I had gotten the case from Otis and that he had to deal with me now. I also told him that the money was in the case. That got his attention, and he agreed to meet with me.
I parked near the restaurant he owned and instructed him to walk to the pool hall where he had been the other night. I would be in the back room. He wasn’t happy about walking in the rain, but I pushed him, and he gave in.
I hurried and was able to slip in the back door just as he went in the front door.
My raincoat was barely off when He appeared in the back room.
“Redd.” He stood in the doorway.
“Jake.”
“You have the bag?” I nodded yes and put it on the table between us.
“Good, can I have it?”
“Not yet. I also have this.” I plopped one of the packages down next to the bag.
“What’s that?”
I turned it slightly so he could see the mailing address was the US Attorney’s office. “My insurance that you and your money friends won’t come after Otis and me.”
He looked back and forth between the bag and the package and at me.
“Why don’t I kill you now?”
“Because this one is going into a safety deposit box. The second one is with some friends of mine. They have orders to mail it if something happens to either Otis or me.” I let it lie there.
“How many copies are there?”
“Just the two. But you can never be sure there isn’t another one floating around, waiting to surface. It’s a good scam you have going. Get the state to approve all the building projects, and Porter Construction will win all the bids. But they use substandard materials, cut corners, buy off inspectors, and profit the difference besides the original profit from the jobs. The money in here is the Mob’s buy-in to the projects. It is probably seed money to get things going, file the paperwork and fees, etc., and maybe even grease a few hands along the way. When you lost the case and the money, you were in it up to your ears with them, and you know how they don’t like things to go wrong. So you don’t have a choice. Deal with me and call everyone off Otis and me, and you get your papers and money back, or…” I let the possibility of not getting the case back come to him.
He didn’t try to tell me otherwise. I pushed him.
“So you and your local Mob friends aren’t rich enough off other people’s miseries? You have to put people’s lives in danger to make a few more bucks?”
“Well, It wasn’t my idea.”
“But you went along with it?”
“Look, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t do it.”
“But?”
“I owe some people some serious money.”
“The Mob? He nodded yes. “And this is your way out from under them?” He nodded yes again.
“You know you’re never out from under them until you die.” I paused for a minute and then brought the conversation to the matter at hand. “My deal?”
“Okay, you got a deal. You and Otis are in the clear. I’ll tell everyone to lay off you.”
“You make sure they understand I’m not kidding. If something happens to either of us, these papers will get mailed one way or the other.”
I handed him the bag, and he opened it and looked inside. Satisfied that everything was still there, he closed it.
“You’re dammed lucky I didn’t keep the money. They would have taken it out of you, one way or the other.” He nodded yes.
“We’re done?”
“We’re done,” I confirmed. He took the bag and headed for the front section of the pool hall.
He turned to face me at the door. “You know Otis is an idiot and stupid.”
I nodded yes.
“And he’s also a kleptomaniac. You know how he can’t help taking stuff. This time, he took the wrong thing, and it almost cost him his life.”
“Maybe this will teach him.” Jake pushed the door open and disappeared in the rain.
“I doubt it,” I said to myself.
I leaned against the nearest wall, willing myself to breathe again.
I checked out of the motel and headed to collect Otis from Raymond. The sky was dark and threatening, and rain continued to fall. It was slow going as the streets were flooded and almost impassable in some areas, but I made it and managed to
I finally had to tell Otis to shut the hell up on the drive back. His constant questions and nervous chatter made it that much harder to drive. It was late when I reached my destination—the Federal Court House.
We entered through the back entrance of the court and took the back stairs to the offices of the Federal prosecutor and his investigators. I left Otis in the waiting room where a police officer was stationed and entered the prosecutor Samual Watson’s office.
“Sam.” We shook hands, and I laid my bag on the desk.
“Redd, how did it go?”
“Pretty much as expected. I have the tapes and other documents here.”
I handed him a small reel-to-reel recorder and the mike that was attached to it. The documents included the surveillance report on the pool hall and pictures of the man Jake met that night.
To my surprise, the door opened, and Otis Manning walked it, grinning.
Watson shook his hand. “You can retire Otis Manning.” He turned to me and said, “Redd, meet our other undercover officer, FBI Special Agent Lewis Chambers.
“Thanks, I was getting real tired of playing an idiot for the whole town.” He turned to me. “Sorry, Redd, I was undercover months before you arrived because of the insurance investigation. Sam thought it best if you didn’t know.”
Watson nodded. “You did what was needed. To get into the world of Jake Newman and generally be around so much that didn’t pay attention to you. The klepto bit was genius. It gave you a bit of cover to steal, blaming it on your “problem.” So, what happened that night?”
“I’d been following Jake for a while. I knew he usually went to the pool hall when he wanted to do stuff off the records. So, I made sure I was there every evening when he usually showed up if he was going to.
I also had been watching that guy who worked for the mayor and knew he was forever forgetting stuff when he left. I don’t know how he managed not to get fired. I saw him come in and meet Jake, so I knew something was up. And I waited, and sure enough, he came out without his bag. I figured it was my only chance to discover what they were doing. I risked getting caught and took the case. The rest, you know. I made sure to get Redd tied to me in public so that Jake would be looking for both of us. Redd played out the whole scenario perfectly to get to the point where he could tape him admitting what he was doing.”
I handed the files to Watson. “Here are the sets of copies.”
The DA played the tape of Jake and me. “That’s enough, along with Agent Chambers’s testimony, to get the judge to issue a warrant. We’ll secure the original copies once we have the warrant to search his company and financials and the Porter Construction company.”
Chambers blew out a tired breath. “I think it’s time for Otis Manning to exit stage left. It could be dangerous being Otis around here for a while.”
We shook hands, and Otis/Agent Lewis Chambers left. I don’t know where they took him, but it was out of town and far away.
Epilogue
The clouds broke, and the rain finely cleared the next day, but it took the city over a week to dry out and the streets to get back to normal. Meanwhile, Jake Newcom and a mayoral aide, Lester Blake, were arrested on charges of conspiracy to commit fraud and attempts to cheat the city, state, and federal government out of millions of dollars in overrun cost and other bogus fees and bills for the projects that had submitted to the city council. My investigation into fraudulent insurance policies and claims paralleled the Feds’ case, which was why they left me in the dark about Otis. As they dug deeper into Jake’s business, more charges were added, and a grand jury indicted him.
Six months later, in jail awaiting trial, an attempt was made on both Jake and Lester Blake’s lives. Blake struck a deal with the Feds and testified against Jake and the Mob players involved in return for immunity from prosecution for any of the crimes he’d done at the time and witness protection.
After spending six months as Redd Robinson, low life, and generally a no-good loafer and drinker, I returned to my wife, kids, and grandkids in Florida and life as a federal insurance investigator. Other than testifying, I hoped the Federal government wouldn’t need Redd’s services again for a long time.
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Death and Rain
D. A. Ratliff
A Detective Elijah Boone Mystery
The outer rain bands arrived overnight as forecasted, and by dawn, water covered the streets of New Orleans. Reaching Lafayette Park, I parked where a patrol officer directed me. Before I exited the SUV, I slipped on nitrile gloves while my hands were dry, pulled the hood of my raincoat over my head, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the deluge.
Water up to the curb sloshed around my Wellies. Yes, Wellies. I rarely tell anyone, but I am addicted to British murder mysteries and often wonder what DCI Barnaby would do. So, I treated myself to a pair of authentic British Wellies. Agatha would be proud.
“Eli.”
I turned to the sound of my name and stifled a laugh at the image walking toward me. My partner, Hank Guidry, wore a fluorescent yellow rain suit—overalls, jacket, hat, and boots. I wondered if anyone issued an APB on Big Bird because I’d found him. Hank stopped in front of me. I nearly lost it when I realized he’d pinned his badge to the jacket—Detective Big Bird, but I thought better of saying it.
“Sorry, took me a bit to get here. I was helping my cousin Blake secure his boat. No charters for the next few days, ’till this freaking storm goes through.” He looked over my shoulder. “Who’s the vic?”
“I don’t know. Dispatch told me that Captain Lourdes said for us to get down here yesterday. Let’s find out.”
An enterprising officer had draped the body with a clear plastic tarp to prevent what little evidence remained present from washing off. As noted on her name badge, Officer Turner nodded as we approached. “Hope this is okay, Detective, but the rain was awful when we spotted the body.”
“Good thinking, Turner. Best we can do under the circumstances. When did you discover the body?”
“About five-forty a.m., sir. My partner and I were checking reports of an abandoned car a few blocks over. Water’s pretty high there. We headed this way to recheck the park because we saw a homeless guy walking around here earlier, and we wanted to make sure he hadn’t stopped here. We wanted to get him someplace dry. As we turned the corner, we saw the body. Thought at first it was the homeless guy, but turned out it wasn’t.”
“Got an ID?”
She nodded and handed me an evidence bag containing a wallet opened to the driver’s license. The name sent a rush of adrenaline through me. I gave the wallet to Hank, who grunted. “Oh, crap, this is going to be a circus.”
“Phone?”
“We didn’t find one.”
We stood as rain cascaded down the statue of Benjamin Franklin and pooled on the sidewalk around the body of New Orleans Councilman Casper Winehouse. The crass, overbearing, blowhard—let me rephrase that—the wonderful, upstanding man of the people had a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.
The medical examiner and the Crime Scene Unit vans arrived simultaneously. The ME, Dr. Drew Myers, was new and all business or just as miserable in the rain as we were. Because of the tall buildings around us, we were somewhat sheltered from the wind but not the incessant rain. CSU set up a tent around the body, and Hank and I wasted no time crowding inside. Myers frowned but said nothing.
A CSU tech carefully removed the plastic tarp from the body, and Myers checked the liver temp. He huffed. “Rough estimate—anytime between midnight and four a.m. He’s not in full rigor yet. I’ll try to get a better time when I get him on the slab and can check the weather stats.”
“Cause of death?”
Myers raised his eyes without raising his head, flashing a slightly disdainful look in my direction. “Looks like a large caliber bullet to the head.” He raised the body a bit and checked the back of his head. “Nothing, a penetrating wound. Bullet must have lost a lot of momentum getting through this thick skull and couldn’t get out. Also, he didn’t die here. Liver mortis pattern is inconsistent with his current position.”
Hank chuckled at the thick skull comment, and I shook my head at him not to say anything. I wasn’t sure if the doctor was commenting on the thick skull or Winehouse’s stubbornness. Time for us to get out of here and let these people do their jobs. “Doctor Myers, give me a heads up when you plan on doing the autopsy. I want to be there.” He nodded and kept working.
Hank’s circus observation proved to be true. When we left the tent, we saw several local news trucks had arrived. Despite a tropical storm in the vicinity, the murder of a NOLA councilman was big news, especially one who made a point of stirring up considerable controversy. They were getting pushy, and Hank and I were about to walk over to get them under control when a black SUV with Chief of Police stenciled on the door pulled up, and an officer got out.
“Detective Boone, the Superintendent would like to speak with you.” He opened the rear driver’s side door.
Hank muttered. “Ooh… called to the principal’s office.” I side-eyed him, and he grinned. “I’ll take care of the press.”
Superintendent Grace Mitchell, the chief of the New Orleans police, had been on the job for a month. Her credentials were impeccable, and in her last city, she drastically reduced the murder rate. That might put me out of a job, but I could live with that, and so could a lot of other people.
I slipped into the back seat of the SUV. “Sorry for being so wet, ma’am.”
“No worries, Detective Boone, I think we’ll be wet all day. And you know what they say, nothing is certain but death and taxes—and rain in New Orleans. Let’s dispense with the niceties as we both know who each other is. I know it’s early times in this case, but what do you know?”
“Very early times, ma’am. You are aware of the victim’s name?”
“Yes, apparently, an enterprising reporter was monitoring the police radio, and we got a call from the night news editor at one of the TV stations.”
“Patrol discovered the body at five-forty a.m. while searching for a homeless man they spotted earlier. They checked the body’s ID and discovered it was Councilman Winehouse.”
“Detective, you should note that the good councilman opposed my hire, but I promise, I have an alibi.”
“Yes, ma’am. However, consider yourself on the suspect list.” I said that jokingly and then realized I had just joked about my ultimate boss to her face. I held my breath for a few seconds before she burst out laughing.
“Believe me, Boone. I’ve been on worst lists. Now, what can you tell me about his death.”
“Penetrating gunshot wound to the forehead, large caliber. ME tentatively puts time of death between midnight and 4 a.m. Other than that, we have nothing. We will be checking CCV cameras in the area, and someone has to tell his family.”
“I’ve called the mayor. He will make the notification, and I’ll go with him. You can interview the family later today. With this storm, we are stretched too thin as it is now. Whatever assignments you and your partner had for today’s storm, forget them. Stay on this case as best you can under the circumstances. Bring in any of your team you need. The weather service tells us this storm is turning, and we may take a stronger hit.” She handed me a business card with her initials and a phone number. “This is my private cell phone number. Continue to update Captain Lourdes, but I want personal updates from you. Thank you, Detective Boone.”
I had been summarily dismissed and found myself standing in the rain as the SUV sped away, splash fanning the streets. I had one word to describe Superintendent Mitchell—formidable.
~~~
By eight a.m., Hank and I were at the station, drinking copious amounts of coffee to get warm. It might be July in New Orleans, but the storm had dropped the temperature twenty degrees, and we felt the chill.
“Hank, let’s get Cardi here. She’s at city hall monitoring the storm. Where did Brenner and Rodriguez end up?”
“District Seven, still shorthanded there, and with the NASA facility, they wanted coverage.”
“Call them back, too.”
Around eleven, Alfonso Maderia, a media forensics technician, texted me that he had CCV footage from the morning crime scene. Hank and I went to the media room to view the video. When we arrived, we found him watching a weather update.
“Sorry, detectives, but my grandmother refuses to leave her home and is in a flood zone. Trying to keep an eye out so my brother can get her if it gets bad.”
“Not a problem, Al. You take care of her. What’s the latest?”
“Storm is strengthening. The forecasters speculated it could reach hurricane level close to landfall, but it is turning more toward us. Crazy, that storm front from the west is dumping rain, and then this.”
Hank nodded. “Yeah, the constant rain is from the regular storm, and now the feeder bands are from the tropical storm. Hope the Cajun Navy shows up.”
I nodded. “They will. One of my neighbors is a member. I heard him leave about four a.m., probably to get his airboat ready. So, what have you got, Al?”
“Not much, very little traffic, and a couple of cameras in the area are out because of the rain. But I did get this from the Federal Building security cams.”
He clicked the mouse, and an image of the park appeared. We could barely see the illuminated Franklin statue through the rain. A few seconds later, a dark van appeared with headlights off and stopped, blocking our view of the statue. Within seconds, it sped off, leaving behind the councilman’s body.
Al pointed to the screen. “Time stamp is five-twenty-seven a.m.”
Hank grunted. “Any other views”
“No.” He scrubbed through the video to show the arriving patrol car. We watched as the officers checked the body, and while her partner returned to the squad to call it in, Turner secured the body with the plastic tarp.
“I have all the footage until the last cop left, but you were there for most of it.”
“Any way to get the tag from the van?”
“There’s a glimpse of a license plate, but I’m not sure if I can enhance it. Even with a couple of streetlamps, very dark and heavy rain.”
“See what you can do. Thanks, Al.”
We headed back to the squad room, and my phone rang—the superintendent.
I answered, and she wasted little time. “Boone, you may interview Mrs. Winehouse at one p.m. She wants her priest with her. She did not appear heartbroken when informed about her husband’s murder, nor did her teenage children. Decide when the time is right to push her. She is hiding something. Report back to me when you finish.”
She hung up.
I recounted her message to Hank. “Eli, I like this superintendent.”
“She is no-nonsense. I like her too. Okay, if we are going to be at the Winehouse residence at 1 p.m. and it’s eleven-thirty now, let’s go now and stop by Mama’s. I want to check on her. The Winehouse place is only a few blocks away.”
“Can we eat?”
I laughed. Hank was always hungry. “If she’s open, we can eat.”
The ordinarily busy Magazine Street was anything but busy today. The flooding wasn’t bad here, but a squall line reached us as we stepped out of the SUV. I doubted it would be long before that changed if the rain continued, and it would.
Mama Leone’s restaurant was open, but only a shopkeeper down the street and a regular were inside. Mateo, Mama’s brother, greeted us warmly.
“Eli, Hank, come in. Let us get you some food on such a nasty day.”
We quickly agreed and sat at our favorite table in front, facing the door. Since the day gunmen entered the restaurant, killing and injuring so many diners, I always faced the door. I glanced at the small brass plate attached to the wall by the doorframe, which had the date — nothing else— engraved on it as a memorandum to those who suffered that day.
Mateo brought coffee and sat with us. “We told the staff to stay home, as we didn’t expect too many customers. So, it’s just Mama and me. Tomas is on a cruise with his future in-laws. We made Spaghetti Bolognese and Sicilian Meatball soup. Which would you like, or you can have both.”
We settled on the soup and hearty Italian bread. Leone and Mateo joined us. These people were family, and I convinced them to close the restaurant and go home. We left with a cooler full of leftover food and an Italian Cream Cake.
The heavy rain from the tropical storm had subsided a bit, but we had road ponding to contend with on the way to meet Charlotte Winehouse. Frank had wisely changed his yellow rain suit for a black police-issued raincoat.
I teased him. “No more glow-in-the-dark rain gear?
He chuckled. “Believe me, came in handy. I stayed dry helping tie that boat off.” He tapped the armrest. “There are so many reasons Winehouse could cause someone to want him dead—the people whose houses are in the path of his community and shopping center. I saw Rollins from the drug task force last weekend at our kids’ baseball game. Winehouse was there, glad-handing as always, but most of the crowd wanted nothing to do with him. Rollins said he was at an FBI organized crime meeting, updating local PDs. Winehouse’s name came up.”
“Tied to organized crime?”
“Not directly. Rollins said the FBI is investigating the developer and his company as mob connected.”
“Mitchell thinks the good widow is hiding something. We need to find out what.”
The Winehouse property was one of the nicest houses in the Garden District. Like most, it was narrow but quite deep. An ornate brick fence encircled the front yard, and a wrought iron front and driveway gate gave the place an elegant charm. We dashed for the front porch and removed our rain gear. Hank rang the doorbell.
Charlotte Winehouse opened the door. She was tall and thin, with angular features and the haughty expression of old money disturbed by the peasants. She sighed. “The police. Punctual, at least.” She gestured for us to come inside.
The house was impeccable, tastefully decorated, and classically understated—not what I had expected from the home of the flamboyant, neon-tied, plaid-suited real estate broker Casper Winehouse. Charlotte led us into a large den at the back of the house, where a man in a thousand-dollar suit and a priest waited.
She sat and told us. “Introduce yourselves.”
We did, and the priest responded, “I am Father Marino. Forgive me for wearing casual clothes, but the call came very early. I rushed over in the storm. I did manage to grab these.” He showed us a rosary and a stole.
The suit spoke with considerable annoyance in his voice. “I am Mrs. Winehouse’s attorney, Norman Tate. As you must realize, this is an exceedingly difficult time for the family. They have lost their husband and father, and we have lost a good friend. We ask that you keep your questions brief.”
“Mr. Tate. A citizen of New Orleans is dead… murdered. It is my responsibility to ask whatever questions I need to ask in order to find his killer.”
I didn’t give him time to respond but turned my attention to Charlotte. “When did you last see your husband, Mrs. Winehouse?”
“He left for breakfast with a couple of his realtors. I believe he had a council committee meeting in the morning. I have no idea about the rest of his day. He stopped by to change clothes around six, as he had a dinner engagement at seven.”
“With who?
“I have no idea. I don’t bother with his business dealings. He mentioned someone interested in leasing space at the center. He said Jacque Bernard, the real estate agent leasing the center, would be there.”
“Where was dinner?”
“The Marquise Club. His home away from home.”
“He didn’t come home last night?”
“I have no idea. We sleep in separate rooms. I was asleep from ten-thirty until the mayor rang the doorbell this morning at seven a.m.”
“Did your husband mention any threats or disagreements he might have with anyone?”
“My husband was a conduit for controversy. Always meddling in local issues and making someone mad. He had a penchant for being a complete jerk. So, I suspect the list of who would love to do him harm is long.”
“Are you on that list, Mrs. Winehouse?
Tate interjected. “That is an inappropriate question, Detective.”
I gave him my best thin-lipped smile. “In a murder investigation, there are no inappropriate questions, as I am sure you know from Criminal Law 101.” I turned back to the widow.
“What was your relationship with your husband?’
“We were married. I stopped loving him a long time ago. I was tired of his philandering and his receptionist of the week. However, I have two children and decided not to put them through a messy divorce until they are older.”
“Can anyone confirm you were here all night?”
Tate’s eyebrows shot up at the question, but he kept quiet. She shrugged. “My children were in their rooms for most of the night. I last spoke to them around nine-thirty when they came to the kitchen for a snack.”
“Where are your children? Boy and girl, I understand.?”
“Yes, they are twins, Lance and Magdaline. They are not here. I sent them to their aunt’s house to keep them from this circus that Casper created.”
“Aunt’s name? I will need to speak to them.”
She glanced at Tate and then Father Marino before she answered. “Her name is Elizabeth Marson. If you must, I will bring them home later, but I insist Norman be present.”
Norman gave her an almost imperceptible nod, but I noticed. I suspected Norman was in control.
“If you don’t mind, we would like to see his office, if he has one here and his bedroom.”
“I do mind….” She stopped when Norman raised his hand.
“Charlotte, this is routine. Let them search.”
Father Marino rose. “Gentlemen, let me show you to his bedroom. His office is just off that room.”
The bedroom contrasted with the rest of the house. While tastefully decorated, Casper was far from neat. He left clothes tossed about, and piles of yachting magazines covered the floor by the bed. Father Marino appeared embarrassed.
“Cas was not a tidy man. He lived life to the fullest but was private and hated the housekeeper in his room. She was allowed to clean once a week when he was here.”
Hank slipped on his gloves and picked up a couple of magazines. “Father, were you friends with Winehouse or only serving as their priest?”
“Oh, friends, for a long time. He was a man who lived life quite large but still held on to his faith. His office is through that doorway. I will leave you to your search.”
I tugged on my gloves. “Let’s get this done.”
We left the house an hour later with a computer, a few files, and an old-fashioned business card holder. Tate was unhappy about our taking the items but had Charlotte sign the receipt for what we removed.
As we pulled away, I had a very uneasy feeling. Something was wrong. “Hank, call Cardi and tell her to start checking out lawyer Tate, Farther Marino, and Winehouse Realty, all his agents, listing, and talk to staff. Have Brenner run the Winehouse’s financials. I want everything he can find, and get Rodriguez to check out the Marquise Club. I want to know the owner and everything about that club.”
“Something’s fishy here, Eli.”
“I have the same feeling. The superintendent was right. Charlotte Winehouse is hiding something.”
“Yeah, she’s a bit too icy. Almost get the impression she is scared.”
“But what is she scared about?”
He shrugged, and I mimicked him. No idea, but we were going to find out.
~~~
Before returning to headquarters, we stopped by the Marquise Club. If you were passing by, you wouldn’t know the large structure was a club but a private home. Only a tiny bronze plaque beside the front door revealed its name. A larger-than-expected parking area was behind the building, with two cars parked. I had heard the owners bought the house, razed it, turned most of the land into a parking lot, and built a small lap pool and exercise room in the remaining area.
The rain had let up a bit, but I parked right in front of the rear entrance because I could. The heavy oak door chimed as it opened, and we stepped inside. There was a small reception area, so we waited. A young man in an expensive suit appeared, immediately raising an eyebrow, and spoke in a British accent.
“I’m sorry, this is a private club, members only.”
Hank and I displayed our badges simultaneously as if we had choreographed the move. The young man looked at us with greater disdain. “We have no need for the police.”
“Who is in charge here?”
“Mr. Bertram is here, but he is busy.”
Hank stood very straight and squared his shoulders, becoming an imposing figure. The young man reacted by slightly moving back. “I’ll see if he has time to see you.”
As he disappeared, Hank relaxed. “Too bad you weren’t wearing the yellow rain suit. He’d be more intimidated.”
Hank snarled. “Funny man.”
Our new friend returned with an older but equally well-dressed man. “I’m Edgar Bertram. Why are you here?”
“I am sure you know why. A member, Casper Winehouse, is dead. We have questions about his visit to the club last night.”
“I am sorry, we do not divulge that information. The members’ activities are confidential.”
Hank pointed to the desk, where a leather-bound ledger was open. “Do guests have to sign in when they come in?”
“None of your concern.”
I had enough. “It is our concern. We need to know if Winehouse was here and who he met with. You can cooperate with our request, or we will get a warrant.”
Anger raged on Bertram’s face. “Then I suggest you try and get a warrant. Please leave.”
Back in the SUV, Hank was seething. “He just suggested no judge will sign off on a warrant.”
“He probably thinks he’s right, but I know one judge who will.”
As we drove back to headquarters, I called Judge Janice Harper. She is no-nonsense and hates the good ole boy network. She will sign the warrant.
By the time we walked into the squad room, she had. I sent Brenner and Rodriguez to pick up the warrant, and once in hand, they would serve it accompanied by uniformed officers.
While they were gone, Cardi filled us in on what Paul uncovered about the Winehouse’s financials. “Casper Winehouse has less than two-hundred and seventy thousand dollars in his personal and savings accounts. He has a stock portfolio worth about three hundred thousand. Charlotte Winehouse is loaded. The house and cars, except for the car he drove, the two vacation houses in Nantucket and one on Key Biscayne in Florida, where she keeps a sixty-foot yacht and an extensive stock portfolio, are all in her name. Total package is twenty-nine million and change.”
“Well, that’s interesting.”
Hank whistled. “She didn’t seem to like him much.”
“Does he have any debt?”
Cardi shook her head. “Other than a car loan and the lease on the building where his real estate office is nothing on the books. He does have a line of credit of five million, and I called the bank to see if his wife secured the loan. The bank security officer told me she was not a guarantor on the loan. He wouldn’t tell me what Winehouse put up as collateral but did tell me Winehouse has a safety deposit box. I have applied for a warrant for all his account information and the box.”
“Kids?
“Sixteen-year-old twins, Lance and Magdaline. They attend the very private Académie Douée. I called the Academy, no answer. It’s closed for the storm. The twins have a joint private Facebook page. No other information on them other than mentions of plays they were in for the Children’s Community Theater.”
“They are supposed to be at their aunt’s. Hank got her name and that of the cook and housekeeper. See if you can talk to them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any update on the storm?”
“It’s likely to strengthen and move closer to us. Forecast is for landfall in Mississippi, so we will be on the clean side, but could still be nasty. I wondered why the mayor had activated the full Emergency Operations Center, and the director told me that this was a rehearsal for much worse storms. They’ve changed a lot of protocols.”
“Makes sense. We need to prepare. Okay, see what else you can find.”
“Eli,” Hank motioned to me, “ME just texted. He’s starting the autopsy in twenty minutes.”
“Let’s go.”
~~~
We returned to the station three hours later with more questions than answers. Hank sank into his chair and laid his head on the desk. “Eli, I hate those things. “
“This one wasn’t as messy as some, and we learned something. “Cardi, Paul, Ray, come over here.“
I gave them the autopsy findings. “Winehouse suffered a penetrating gunshot wound to the central forehead. The recovered round was a 9 mm, which penetrated his forehead, bounced off the back of the skull, and did considerable damage, including a large hematoma, which we expected from the autopsy. The ME also discovered that his hands were bound, and he had numerous premortem bruises on his torso.”
Rey whistled lowly. “So, he was tortured before he died. The question is, why?”
“Exactly. What have you learned from the club’s records?
Paul Brenner responded. “Just getting into them. But we did confirm Winehouse signed in at six-fifty-two. The real estate agent Mrs. Winehouse mentioned arrived shortly after him.” He continued to peruse the guest ledger, then looked at me. “That attorney, Norman Tate, signed in at six-ten pm.”
Hank looked at me. “A fact the good attorney failed to mention.”
“Maybe he didn’t see Winehouse there.”
Paul shook his head. “It was already raining hard by then. Only twelve members signed in last night and were gone by nine p.m. I doubt there was any way he could miss them.”
I tapped my desk with the pen I was holding. “So, Tate withheld information. Somehow, I am not surprised. We need to talk to him.”
Cardi’s phone rang while they were talking about the Marquise members. “Talking to anyone is going to have to wait. The storm is strengthening to a low Cat 1. Landfall is expected to be east of us near Biloxi, which will put us on the clean side of the storm. The mayor has ordered a curfew until seven a.m. tomorrow morning but is reserving a decision on first responders depending on weather conditions.”
Ray Rodriguez groaned. “I guess we eat from the vending machines as long as the power is on.”
Hank laughed. “You’re in luck. Mama Leone took care of us. Ray, with me. Time to warm up dinner.”
~~~
As we enjoyed Mama’s cooking, I asked Cardi what she had found on Tate and the priest. She shrugged. “Not as much as I liked. Tate’s law firm site shows he was born in Chicago and attended the University of Illinois Law School. He worked in a firm in Chicago until three years ago when he left and opened a firm here. “
“Find out why he left Chicago?”
“Have a call into the firm’s managing partner but no response. I did find out that they represented Martin Amato in his extortion trial.”
Hank whistled. “The same guy who went on trial for a councilman’s murder? It was all over national news.”
Brenner responded. “I’m from Chicago, and I remember my dad talking about that case. He said everyone believed Amato had the councilman killed. The jury deadlocked, and my dad figured Amato tampered with the jury.”
I looked at my team and knew they thought what I did. Could this be connected? “Paul, get info on that case and see if Amato has any ties to New Orleans. You know I don’t believe in coincidence. Cardi, what about the priest?”
“He is the associate pastor at Our Lady of Peace. He’s been there since 2018, runs youth programs, and is the choir director. I haven’t spoken to Father Jordan yet. He is apparently at Touro hospital with a sick parishioner.”
Rodriguez smiled. “Are you talking about Father Vincent Marino?” Cardi nodded. “We call him Father Vinnie. He’s a great guy. My grandparents knew him when he was a little boy in Luquillo.”
The hairs on my neck prickled, and I glanced at Hank, whose expression gave his thoughts away. He was thinking the same thing as I was. Something was amiss. “Ray, Father Marino is Puerto Rican?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Describe him.”
“He’s about five feet eight inches, around thirty-five, dark hair, brown eyes.”
Again, Hank and I glanced at each other. “Get me a photo of him.”
Cardi’s fingers flew over her keyboard, and within seconds, she cast her screen onto the large wall monitor. I looked at Ray. “This is Father Marino?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there any other priest named Marino in the New Orleans diocese? “
Again, Cardi’s finger flew across her keyboard. She shook her head. “No.”
“Then the man we met today is about six feet tall, has brown hair, blue eyes, and is around fifty. He is not Father Marino.”
I had a bad feeling about this. “Get me as much info on Amato as possible… any connection to the community project… including the developer, and get me more on Tate. One of you, check out the sister, Elizabeth Marson. Find out where she lives, and as soon as we can get a squad car on the streets, I want those kids picked up. We consider them in eminent danger until we figure out what’s happening.”
~~~
The squall lines from the storm intensified as the storm grew closer, and the eye appeared to be coming ashore around four a.m. somewhere west of Biloxi. Power remained on in most of New Orleans, so I was thankful for that. I sent Hank to the locker room at about eleven p.m., where there was a cot, to get some sleep. He’d been up since three, helping with his cousin’s charter boat. Cardi napped in the captain’s office on his comfortable leather couch.
Wind and rain bands had started pushing water off Lake Pontchartrain, but so far, the levees were holding, and the canals were draining without overflowing. Heavy rain pelted the window beside my desk, making me drowsy, but I couldn’t afford to sleep. Mitchell’s observation about Charlotte Winehouse kept rattling in my head. No doubt she had not told us the truth. Why use the name Father Marino for the man with them? “
I needed to find out where Marino was today. Ray was asleep, and Paul was reviewing something on his computer. I scoffed. Stop delegating and make the call yourself. I called Touro first on the chance Father Jordan was still there. The operator paged him, and I was surprised that he answered. I introduced myself, apologized for the hour, and asked if he knew where Father Marino was.
“I haven’t seen Father Marino since last night. He did leave word that he was going to visit the Winehouse family after we heard the terrible news. They are active members of the church, and we share their grief. I am at the hospital with my family. My mother had emergency heart surgery, so I have had little dealings with the church today. Is there a problem?”
“No, we spoke with him earlier at Mrs. Winehouse’s home, and I had some follow-up questions.”
“Terrible thing to befall a family. I have his cell number. Would you like it?’
I said yes, I would, and wished his mother well as I hung up. I dialed Marino’s number, but there was no answer. This was not unusual at this time of night but surprising for a priest not to be available to his flock. It was still a couple of hours until landfall, and there was nothing more we could do. Exhaustion washed over me, and I couldn’t stay awake. I put my feet on the desk, slid down my chair, and fell asleep in seconds.
~~~
I woke with a start as a clap of thunder reverberated through the squad room. I glanced at the wall clock. It was just after four a.m., and the wind howled. I looked out the window to see branches on the trees bending and flailing from the gale. When I turned around, Paul approached me with a cup of coffee.
“Glad you are awake. We have new info but wanted to let you sleep.”
I took a sip of coffee and shook off the cobwebs. “What did you find out?”
Cardi piped up. “A lot, Eli. For one, I couldn’t find the sister living in New Orleans, so I expanded the search to surrounding cities. Nothing. I tracked her down. She lives in Los Angeles, Brentwood, to be exact. Her husband is a big wig with a production studio.”
“Then the kids are not with her.”
“No. You were right. They’re in danger. And that’s not all. Paul?”
“Sir, the development company for the community and shopping center is TFG Properties out of Phoenix. Dominic Lombardy is the owner. However, based on the incorporation records, he owns only forty percent of the company.”
From Paul’s raised eyebrow, I knew he’d struck gold. “Don’t tell me.”
Paul chuckled. “I gotta tell you, sir. Amato Construction of Chicago owns the other sixty percent. Amato Construction is wholly owned by Martin Amato and his son, Davin. I decided to look back through the Marquise ledger and guess whose name I found.”
“Davin Amato.”
“That’s why you have the shiniest gold shield, sir. Davin Amato visited the club three times, but Winehouse was only there twice when he was. He was there the night Winehouse was killed.”
“One of you go wake Hank up. I have a call to make.”
Ray volunteered. “I’ll go. He likes me, but I can outrun him if he’s unhappy about waking up.”
I pulled the card with Superintendent Mitchell’s private number from my wallet and made the call from Captain Lourdes’ office. It was four-twenty a.m., but I was pretty sure Michell was awake.
She answered quickly and directly. “I assume you have news?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I told her what my team had uncovered, and to her credit, she listened without interrupting me. When I finished, I heard her take a deep breath before she spoke.
“Detective, I have been on the job in New Orleans for thirty-seven days. As you may know, my previous positions have been as the chief of police in Syracuse, Boston, and, most recently, acting chief in Chicago. I’m quite familiar with Martin Amato.”
“And likely, ma’am, why Winehouse opposed your hiring.”
She laughed softly. “No doubt. This man is ruthless. He cares nothing for the people he uses to get what he wants and wants everything. Not on my watch and not in this city.”
“I have been told that the FBI is investigating TFG Properties for mob connections. This all fits.”
“Boone, I need to talk to the FBI before proceeding. I know the head agent on the task force. I’m giving you carte blanche to do what you need to do. SWAT and any needed resources are yours, but do nothing until I talk to the FBI. Charlotte Winehouse is hiding something, and I agree her kids are in danger, and that takes priority. But I also do not want our actions to impact an FBI investigation. Let’s plan now, and once this damn storm gets out of the way, we’ll take care of business.”
I returned to the squad room. We had work to do.
~~~
The sun rose just after six, and the parish roads department, the fire department, and Entergy, the power company, immediately began to assess conditions. Dennis Duncan, commander of the SWAT unit I requested, sat across from me, having coffee and vending machine pastries.
“Eli, I don’t like the idea of you and Hank going in alone.”
“If it’s just Winehouse and the priest, it will be fine.”
Denny fumed for a second. Then his eyes widened slightly. “I have an idea.”
By six-thirty, we had permission to begin our operation. SWAT units were staged near the house but out of sight. Hank, the team, and I waited in a SWAT command unit for Denny’s plan to start the operation. A fire department ladder truck blocked our vehicle from the house.
We watched three SWAT officers, one in a Delta Utilities uniform and two officers in NOFD turnout gear, approach the Winehouse residence. The officer in the Delta uniform was wearing a live camera, and he rang the doorbell.
Charlotte Winehouse came to the door, still wearing the same clothes as yesterday morning. Her exhaustion was evident in her demeanor. Her dilatated pupils and stilted speech conveyed fear.
“Yes? What do… do you want?”
“Ma’am, sorry for the early hour, but we have reports of a gas leak in the neighborhood after the storm, and we are checking all houses. I see you are a Delta customer. I’d like to check the connections to your stove, furnace, and the main outside.”
She was shaking and glanced over her shoulder toward the man pretending to be Father Marino. He smiled. “Forgive us, gentlemen. Mrs. Winehouse’s husband died unexpectedly yesterday morning, and I stayed with her so she would not be alone during the storm. Please, come in and check what you need.”
The officer thanked them and followed Winehouse and the man to the kitchen. The officer pretended to check the oven for leaks but made sure the camera on his hard hat swept the entire area.
Returning to the living room, he continued to look around, covering his actions. “Lovely home, ma’am. The artwork is nice. So sorry for your loss.”
Winehouse thanked him, and they left. They walked around to the back of the house to check the main gas meter, returned to the sidewalk, walked out of sight, and doubled back to the command vehicle.
The “Delta” officer reported. “That is one scared woman, and the suspect wouldn’t leave her alone with us. We detected no sign of anyone else in the house.”
Denny nodded. “Good job. Guys.” He turned toward me. “Once the unit is in place, I’ll give you the go-ahead. Got your vests on?”
Hank laughed. “Yeah, but you can’t tell under this rain gear.”
“Camera working?” The tech in the van replied that both video and audio were good. “Okay, from this second on, I’m in command. Get in place.”
Cardi was with Hank and me. We felt a woman with us wouldn’t be as threatening. We waited as the SWAT team took positions around the house, and we walked to the front door on Denny’s order. Hank rang the doorbell.
This woman was scared if the wideness of her eyes indicated her fear. “Detective, I… why are you here?”
“We just had a few more questions. May we come in?”
She swallowed, but ‘Father Marino’ stepped in. “Of course.” He led us to the living room. We are happy to help. I see you have a new face.”
Cardi nodded. “I’m Detective Cardia Fleming.”
I sensed the phony priest knew we were on to him. He gestured to the couch. “Why don’t we sit down?”
Time to stop playing. Hank was standing near the doorway so he could watch the stairs. Cardi had inched closer to Charlotte Winehouse. Her role was to get the victim out of the way.
“No, I think not. Mrs. Winehouse, where are your children?”
She gasped, but her captor quickly said. “They are at her sister’s house. We told you.”
“Her sister Elizabeth lives in LA, Brentwood, to be exact. Would you like the address? I don’t think two teens made it to LA in twenty-four hours in this storm. Where are they?”
I had to give him credit. He didn’t give up. He calmly explained. “The fact is we were scared the children were in danger. I sent them to a sanctuary where they would be safe.“
“Mrs. Winehouse, you know this isn’t Father Marino?
She whimpered but gave me a slight nod.
I turned to him. “Who are you, and where are the twins?”
Thank goodness the next few minutes were on tape because they passed in what seemed an instant or a lifetime. The suspect reached for Winehouse, but Cardi pulled her away, and they ducked behind the couch. The man pulled a gun from his coat jacket and aimed it at me.
“You just had to meddle, didn’t you? Now let the bitch go, and I won’t kill you. We will walk out of here, and you live.“
Hank moved, and the suspect swung the gun in his direction. I threw my body across the room, slamming into the man as I heard the doors burst open and the words I learned to love that day.
“SWAT, don’t move.”
Within seconds, a SWAT officer pulled me off the floor while two others secured the suspect. I heard one officer call Code 4, meaning SWAT controlled the scene. I did a mental check—Hank was beside me and fine. Where was Cardi?
“Cardi,”
“Here. We’re okay.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Officers were helping Cardi and Charlotte to their feet.
Charlotte Winehouse was frantic. “They took my kids. I don’t know where they are.” She stopped and looked toward the kitchen. “They hurt Father Vinny.” She pointed to the suspect. “He hit him over the head, and Father just dropped. He was bleeding.”
Cardi turned to Charlotte to look at her. “Where is Father Marino?”
“They put him in the laundry room.”
Hank and two SWAT officers headed to check while I turned to the suspect. One of the officers was patting him down. “Tell me your name.”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
The officer offered me a wallet. I grabbed gloves from my pocket and slipped them on before taking it.
“Well, Mister Jeremy Lusitano, Chicago. Put him in a chair.” Not so gently, the officers complied. I turned toward Brenner and Rodiguez, who had entered, and handed them the wallet. “Run this guy. I’m going to talk to Winehouse.”
As I started to leave, Hank returned. “Father Marino is alive. He has a nasty head wound, but he’s regained consciousness. Called for Fire Rescue.” As he spoke, firefighters with med kits came in. Ray asked if he could help with the priest. I said yes, as that kept Frank with me.
We headed for the garden room where Cardi had taken Winehouse. Charlotte nearly jumped out of her seat.
“Father Vinny?”
I sat beside her. “He regained consciousness, and paramedics are on their way.”
She looked relieved but grabbed my forearm. “My children? I can’t lose my children.”
“We are doing everything we can to find them. I need you to tell me what happened yesterday morning.”
Winehouse’s hands trembled wildly, and she grasped them together to control her nerves. Cardi spoke to her in a soothing voice. “Charlotte, you need to take a breath, remain calm, and tell us everything from the beginning.”
She struggled but did what Cardi asked. “I woke up and heard noises in the house. I looked at the clock on the nightstand, and it was four-twenty. As I started to get up, the door burst open, and a man who posed as Father Vinny came in. He grabbed me and told me to be quiet, or I’d suffer the same fate as my husband.
I heard my children scream and tried to fight him off, but he hit me in the stomach. Two other men were with him, and they took us downstairs, tied us up, and said they were waiting for someone.”
“Charlotte, have you seen any of these men before?”
“No, never. The man who showed up. Cas mentioned him before, but we never met.”
“Norman Tate?”
“Yes, claimed he was Cas’s attorney, but he wasn’t.” She shuddered. “He didn’t tell us at first that Cas was dead. He kept asking us where Cas had hidden the book. I didn’t know what he was talking about. They started searching the house, and Tate kept telling them to put everything back as they found it because the cops would likely show up at some point.”
“When did Father Marion arrive? How did he know about your husband?”
“Just before six a.m. He’s the youth counselor at the church. One of the kids got into trouble, and he was at the police station. He heard one of the officers say Casper was dead, and he rushed here to be with us. He’s close to my kids. I didn’t know until then. The kids became hysterical, and Father Vinny demanded to know why these men were here. That’s when that one bastard hit him, and they tied him up and stuck him in the laundry room.”
“The mayor and Superintendent said you were quite unemotional when they came to notify you.”
“You would do as told, Detective, if they had threatened to kill you and your children, and you knew they had already killed your husband. We were able to pull it off because, in my youth, I fancied myself an actress. I lived in LA with my sister but eventually decided I’d rather be in New Orleans. I took acting lessons while there, and my kids do now. They want to be actors. I told them when the police came to act indifferent as if their dad’s death meant nothing to them. But I threw you a clue when you asked where the kids were.”
“Your sister’s name, and you hoped we would find out she was in LA.” She nodded, and I nodded back. “That and Detective Rodriguez knew who the real Father Vinny was, and we realized the man we met was not him.”
“But my children are still missing.”
“We’ll find them,” Cardi reassured her, but her glance at me was clear. Would we?
“Charlotte, what do you ….”
Brenner entered. “We might have something.”
Leaving Cardi with Charlotte Winehouse, Hank and I followed Brenner to the dining room.
“Sir, Lusitano did eight years in Illinois for aggravated assault and terroristic threatening, and a company called Port Traders popped up in an online search for Jeremy Lusitano. I dug a little deeper, and he’s one of four owners of warehouse space on 2319 Tchoupitoulas Street near the port. One of the other owners is Dominic Lombardy of TFG Properties. That might be where they are keeping the kids.”
“Get eyes on that building now.”
“Ahead of you, already done.”
“Good man.” I spun around. “Hank, find Denny. I need to call Mitchell.”
I stepped out onto the porch and called the Superintendent. She was straight to the point. “What’s happening.”
I gave her the rundown and told her what we knew about Jeremy Lusitano and the warehouse. She told me to sit tight and she would call me back. I paced. Five minutes later, she did.
“Eli, FBI Special Agent Jack Trainor is heading to you. He informed me that the FBI had had that warehouse under surveillance for several months but could never tie it to Amato. They are willing to raid the warehouse now. He is assembling a hostage rescue team to work with NOPD SWAT, assuming the children are there. You and Trainor are running this operation jointly. I won’t have them take the glory after we connect the dots on their case. Let me know when those kids are safe.”
I went inside—time to have a chat with Jeremy Lusitano.
Cardi had gone upstairs with Charlotte so she could take a shower and change clothes after her ordeal. I was glad because I didn’t plan on being nice, and she had enough turmoil to deal with.
Two SWAT officers guarded Lusitano. I asked them to bring him into the kitchen. They were not exactly gentle when they sat him down on a bar stool.
“I’m giving you one chance here. You are facing several charges here, four counts of kidnapping unlawful detainment, and if anything happens to those kids, well, the consequences are not what you want to face. Tell me where those kids are.”
Lusitano sat up straight, a lip curled and stared me in the eye. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“Then let me tell you something. We know who you are associated with and that you or one of your buddies killed Casper Winehouse. When we run ballistics on your gun, will we find it was the gun that killed him?” He squirmed. “If it’s your gun, it’s first-degree murder and, hello, the death penalty in Louisianna. And that will mean a long time on death row.”
I noted he was chewing the inside of his cheek and grew quiet. “What did Casper have that you wanted so badly?” I leaned in. “Something you wanted, so you tortured and then killed him when he wouldn’t tell you. Something you tormented and kidnapped a woman and her children and beat up a priest over. What?”
I uttered the last word loudly, and he reacted, startled. “You going to take the rap for someone, Lusitano? Who?”
“I’m not taking the rap for anyone.”
I scoffed. “No, just for your own crimes.”
“Man, what’s a few years in a crummy prison in the swamp? I’ve done worse.”
“Eight years for aggravated assault and terroristic threatening? That’s not a short time. I can guarantee you twenty or more in Louisiana.”
“Piece of cake.”
“Glad you feel that way, but Louisiana won’t have much chance to keep you. The FBI is preparing to raid the warehouse on Tchoupitoulas Street.” That got his attention. “And we know who owns that building with you, and we can tie the entire operation back to Martin Amato. So, I think you will be a long-time guest of Club Fed.”
Lusitano had never been this close to Federal custody. Amato had paid off enough officials to protect them, but that protection was over, and he knew it from his wide-eyed, blank expression.
“I’m going to ask one more time. Are the Winehouse kids there?”
His hands handcuffed and clenched the entire time we talked, went limp, and he dropped his head, unwilling to look at me. He knew he was defeated.
“I take that as a yes.”
He muttered without looking up. “I want a lawyer.”
I pulled one of the SWAT officers out of Lusitano’s hearing range. “He needs to take a long route to booking. Flood waters must have interfered with a quick trip.” The officer nodded and gave me a thumbs-up.
A few minutes later, the FBI arrived. Agent Trainor shook my hand. “Detective, we have been waiting for a break. You gave it to us. Agents in Chicago are poised to raid Amato’s office, home, businesses, and TFG Properties in Phoenix. Those plans have been in place for a long time. All we needed was a go. Our Hostage Rescue Unit is meeting with your SWAT commander now.”
Rodriguez interrupted. “Eli, I just got a call from ballistics. Captain Duncan had Lusitano’s gun taken to the forensics lab after I signed the evidence bag, and Superintendent Mitchell ordered a rush on identification. Ballistics is not prepared to sign off until more testing is completed, but they say it’s ninety percent certain Lusitano’s gun fired the shot that killed Winehouse.”
Trainor smiled. “We got him, and now we need to get the rest.”
~~~
I fumed a bit as SWAT and the FBI HRU prepared to breach the one-story brick building. It’s tough to watch others do the work. Once again, I sat in a van watching the action, but it was an FBI command center vehicle this time. Hank and the rest of my squad sat in a cruiser just behind us.
The FBI hostage rescue unit took the lead, with Duncan’s SWAT team following them in. On Trainor’s “go”, they used the battering ram, and as they disappeared inside, I held my breath, not sure I took in air until I heard the Code Four given.
In between, we heard the officers and agents shouting for people to drop their weapons and rounds of gunfire. I will never forget those few minutes which burned into my memory. Thankfully, no agents were injured, but one suspect inside died. We rushed into the building when we heard that the scene was secure.
I made a beeline to Duncan. “Did you find them?”
“Yeah, they’re fine. In that storage room on the left.”
We ran to the room. SWAT officers were untying them. They had been bound together and then to a pipe in the room. They looked toward Cardi, and Magdaline started crying, reaching out for Cardi.
Cardi knelt beside her and hugged her. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”
Lance looked at me. “Mom… is Mom okay?”
For a second, I fought back emotion but managed to answer. “Your mom is fine and waiting for you.”
Cardi stayed with the kids and rode with them in the ambulance to the hospital. Hank called the house and had an officer take Charlotte to Tulane Medical Center’s ER. Then, along with Agent Trainor, we also left for the ER.
When we arrived, Charlotte Winehouse was with her children. She came into the hallway to speak to us.
“How are they?”
“Detective, thanks to you, all of you, they are alive—scared but alive. But you need to hear something. My phone was still upstairs, and I only grabbed it when I was getting my purse to come here. A few minutes ago, I noticed I had a message from Cas.” She clicked on the voice message.
“Charlotte, I’m in trouble. I found out something about the men backing the center, and it’s not good. I took a notebook and now realize that what I had was damming evidence against some powerful people. If I don’t make it, look in the magazines. I ripped the pages out and hid them there. Just in case, I’m hiding my phone here in the club, so they don’t find it on me and hear this message. That should protect you. Look, I know you stopped loving me long ago, and with good reason, but I still care about you, even if it’s not love. But I love Lance and Maggie with all my heart. If something happens to me, you tell them that—tell them I love them always. Gotta go. I’m at the club meeting them for dinner, but I think they know I took the file. Whatever happens, sorry for all I put you through. Goodbye.”
Tears ran down Charlotte Winehouse’s face as she handed me the phone. “I didn’t love him. Not sure I ever did, but he gave me these two great kids and I will forever be grateful to him for that. You need to know he skirted ethics often, loved a good deal, even when it was not the right thing to do, and slept with every woman he could. He was boisterous and crass, but he wasn’t a criminal, and he wouldn’t have been part of anything that was.”
~~~
As we headed for the car, Hank sent Brenner and Rodriguez back to the Marquise Club to find the phone. When we arrived at the Winehouse residence, we gloved up and started searching through the tall stacks of yachting magazines. Page by page, we found the contents of the notebook.
Agent Trainor sat on the floor as he read through the pages, shaking his head. “This is everything we needed to put Martin Amato and his syndicate away for a long time. Names, dates, bank accounts, contacts, companies. This is pure gold.” He stood and put out his hand towards me. I took it, and he shook my hand. “The work you and your detectives did to put this together is exemplary, and we couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks to all of you.”
~~~
Hank, Cardi, Brenner, Rodriguez, and I were leaving the station to attend Casper Winehouse’s funeral. The FBI had delayed releasing the body, which postponed the funeral for two weeks. Charlotte Winehouse and her children asked us to attend, so we agreed. I was about to get into the SUV when the Superintendent’s car pulled up beside us. The driver stepped out and opened the back door as he spoke.
“Superintendent Mitchell would like you to accompany her to the funeral.”
I heard Hank snicker and whisper, “Teacher’s pet,” but I ignored him and complied.
“Detective, I thought this would be a good time to fill you in on what is happening with the FBI Amato case. The notebook belonged to Norman Tate. According to the Marquise Club manager, Tate was somewhat inebriated and left the book in the cigar room. Winehouse volunteered to take it to him. That was two days before he died. At least he had the presence of mind to protect the information and let his wife know where it was.”
“What’s next?”
“A federal grand jury has been seated in Chicago and will be asked to return indictments against Amato and his associates. Here, I am sure you are aware that DA Landru had charged Lusitano with murder, kidnapping, and other assorted crimes, and she has also brought Norman Tate before a grand jury, along with the men at the warehouse. You will also be happy to know that the good people at the Marquise Club are falling all over themselves to cooperate.” Mitchell gave me a sly nod of the head. “Why, they had no idea they were dealing with criminals.”
“They say that now. Landru notified me that I would be testifying before the grand jury. I also got a call from the Federal prosecutor in Chicago, so I will probably have to testify there, too.”
“Whatever you need to do, consider it approved. Just have Captain Lourdes inform my office.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You did good, Detective Boone—you and your team. I will admit that when the major crimes unit structure was first introduced, it took me a while to appreciate it. I always felt it diverted valuable assets, such as detectives, from general crime. However, after seeing your department in action, I am convinced this is the best approach for high-profile and major crimes.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Ah, there’s the church. Before we part, I have a question. My son and family are coming for a visit. My daughter-in-law is Italian and suspects that in the Cajun food capital of the world, there are no good Italian restaurants. Do you know of a good authentic Italian restaurant here?”
I grinned. I was about to score more brownie points with the boss and Mama Leone. “Yes, ma’am. As a matter of fact, I do.”
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Escape Into the Night
Laura Brady DePace
I peeked cautiously out the window. It was still raining. Night was creeping near.
Night was the friend of the hunted. Rain, not so much.
I slipped back down below the window sill, becoming invisible to anyone outside who might be looking for me. Might be? Who was I kidding? Would be. Already was.
I turned to look at the small group of children who were behind me, crouched in the darkness of the ancient storage room. They looked scared. I wondered what I looked like, then decided I didn’t want to know.
I hitched my best “Everything’s going to be fine” smile onto my face. They didn’t look like they were buying it. I didn’t blame them. It seemed unlikely that anything was going to be fine.
“It’s almost dark,” I whispered. “Not long now. Be ready.”
Heads nodded wordlessly. Shadowed eyes looked up at me with varying levels of trust and fear. I was their last option. Their only option. And we all knew it.
If I could get us all out, we lived. If I failed, we all died. Or worse. It was simple and terrifying.
I reached into my backpack and pulled out what rations I had left. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. I began portioning it out to the children. Jonas, the oldest boy, shook his head, turning down his share of the rations. It was a noble gesture, but at this point, we couldn’t afford noble gestures.
“Jonas. A word,” I whispered. “You, too, Magda,” I added, beckoning the oldest girl. “Bring your rations. Both of you,” I ordered. Magda, who had been breaking her share into smaller pieces, looked at me in surprise. “All of your rations, please, both of you.” The younger children hastily returned the smaller pieces they had just received from the two oldest.
I led them a few steps away. “But, Aubrey – “ Magda began to protest. I cut her off.
“Look,” I whispered, making sure none of the younger kids were close enough to hear, “I get it. I do. You want to help them, and you’re willing to sacrifice yourselves for them. It’s an admirable sentiment.” They shuffled their feet and looked embarrassed in the half-darkness. “But.” I reached out to take their hands, making sure that I had their undivided attention. I had it. Their eyes were locked on mine. “But. We can not afford noble gestures right now.” Anger flashed in Jonas’s eyes, and he made as if to protest. “No, hear me out. I need you two. I cannot do this without you.”
They stilled, all their attention on me. “I am one person. Granted, my powers give me a bit of an edge, but I am still only one person. There are six children, including you. I will do my very best to get us safely out of here. But if my best isn’t good enough – “ I looked gravely at the two teens. “ – then it is up to you.” I saw the impact of the message hit them. Shock. Fear. Then determination. Each child-warrior straightened with resolve and nodded courageously.
“So you see,” I concluded, “I need you two to stay strong. And that means taking your share. Taking care of yourselves. You can’t take care of them” – I nodded in the direction of the children – “if you don’t take care of yourselves. Promise me.”
Each nodded, and sketched a touching “Cross My Heart” that nearly undid me. God, they were brave. But so young. So very young.
“Okay. Eat!” I said, sending them back to the cluster of children.
I turned away to sit on a crate a little bit away from them. I had to think. I had to “seek.” I had to come up with a plan to get us out of this mess. I had until nightfall, and then we had to move.
Many people were likely after us. Teachers. Headmasters. Priests. The heads of Organized Crime families from several continents. Scientists and pseudo-scientists. For all I knew, the police and the FBI. And the CIA and Homeland Security.
Why? Because we were special. We were part of a growing group of people with special powers of one kind or another. Some of us had “gentle” powers, such as transforming leaves and sticks into fanciful creatures. Some of us had more useful powers, such as becoming invisible or flying. Some of us, like me, could “read” the minds of others, and influence their thoughts and actions. Some of us had frightening, overwhelming powers such as telekinesis, or the ability to melt or freeze substances with just a look. The list went on and on.
More of us were turning up all the time, and no one knew why. No one knew why we could do the things we did. And no one knew how to control us.
When people become aware of a group of oddly-powerful people, there is always trouble. They don’t understand us. They fear us. They fear our powers.They fear our influence on their children, our effect on their lives. And when people are afraid, they allow terrible things to happen.
I had grown up in an institution called Gadsden Hall. The “Masters” presented it as a school, but really it was a prison, a secret lab where children like me were studied and experimented on in the name of “Science.” I had been lucky enough – and skilled enough with my power – to escape. I found my way to a real school for people like me, one that helped its special students to explore and learn to control our powers. When I was old enough, I stayed on as Staff. My role became the important one of seeking out these special children, identifying them, explaining their powers to them, and inviting them to come with me to New Day school, where they could learn and grow and be safe.
Safe. Fine job I was doing on that! Here I was, responsible for a bunch of scared kids, hiding out in a basement and trying desperately to come up with a plan that wouldn’t get us all killed.
“It is what it is,” I told myself. “Now think!”
I took three deep breaths to calm myself. Then I tentatively reached out to my charges with my mind. I touched their minds gently, calming them, checking their mental state. I sent a wave of positivity to each of them, strengthening them, giving them the self-confidence that they would need to ensure our success. I reached a little deeper, to catalog their gifts and their skill levels. Was there anything I could use?
Hannah and Ethan, the twins, were the youngest at five years old. They could read each other’s minds easily, and carry on mental conversations between them, regardless of how far apart they were. Their ability to “talk” silently with each other could be handy. Scouts, perhaps?
Malcolm, six and a half, had an interesting ability to communicate with small creatures of the darkness: spiders, cockroaches, mice, rats, bats. He could get them to do things for him, like crawl on another student as a prank. Bats were his favorites, and he liked to call them to flutter around him as a living cape while he pretended he was Batman. “A bat-shield,” Aubrey thought. “That could work!”
Samantha, at ten, was a quiet girl who didn’t really believe in her own power. She had great potential, Aubrey felt, but she needed to develop confidence. Her power was to persuade others to help her, in whatever way she asked: giving her food, reaching things down from high shelves, unlocking doors for her. “I might be able to use that,” Aubrey thought, “with a little guidance from me.”
Jonas, 13, had a powerful telekinetic gift. He had been experimenting with his ability from the time he was very young, so he had established a decent level of control. Aubrey could definitely rely on him in their escape.
Magda, the oldest at 14, could direct a field of energy, akin to electricity, to do her bidding. She could turn switches on and off, change radio stations, and scramble broadcasts. It was hard for Aubrey to understand how it worked, but she knew she could trust Magda to put her ability to use where it would do the most good.
It was almost dark. She was running out of time.
“Okay, gang,” Aubrey said softly, calling them all together. “It’s now or never.”
She took a broken chair leg and began to draw in the dust: the building they were in, with the exits and windows clearly marked; the garage across the street, where she could see a number of large delivery trucks; a rack holding keys to the vehicles, just inside the garage door; a police car at the corner, one officer sitting inside; a suspicious-looking black SUV with tinted windows, down the block. And the highway, so tantalizingly close, offering the way to freedom, but blocked off with bright-orange cones and barrels, a police roadblock.
Aubrey laid out her plan, making sure that each person knew their role. Some of the kids offered tweaks here and there, and she incorporated them into the plan. As they talked it over, Aubrey could feel them coming together, becoming a team, trusting each other. She concentrated and gave that feeling a little mental boost. For the first time, she began to hope that this really could work. Together, they could make it happen. Together, they were strong.
They joined their hands together in the middle of their circle. “Go, Team!” came the whispered shout.
“Places!” Aubrey hissed. “We got this!”
Malcolm focused on the night creatures in the area available to him. He muttered to himself as they began appearing. “Rats! You are going to race out the door and scare the bad guys.” He smiled as they gathered in a group behind the door. “Bats! Cape duty! You’ll cover our scouts and advance guard!” The bats fluttered around his head, then moved off at his command to flutter over Ethan, who disappeared beneath their flapping mass.
Ethan’s job was to scout out the garage, locate a delivery truck to steal, and acquire the keys for it. Using the keys, he would unlock the doors and slip the key into the ignition, ready to start the get-away vehicle. He would report back to Hannah through their mental link, and Hannah would pass the details on to the group. Ethan nodded and made his way out the door, the bat-flock hiding him from the watchers outside.
“Okay, Samantha, you’re on!”
“Are you sure?” Samantha asked doubtfully.
“Absolutely!” Aubrey affirmed. “You’ve got this! He’ll be your slave in no time!”
Samantha hesitantly stepped through the door. No bats to shield her; she wanted to be seen. Specifically, she wanted to be seen by the policeman in his car on the corner. Samantha took a deep breath, then began to cry. Loudly. Heartbreakingly. The man would have to be made of ice to not come running to help the poor child. She got his attention, and his devotion, immediately, as he rushed down the street to her aid.
The men in the black SUV began to show signs of movement. Wondering what the policeman was doing, they started to exit the car.
“Rats! Go!” ordered Malcolm. Rats poured through the doorway, joined by others emerging from the storm drains, and surrounded the SUV, hissing and snapping at the men’s feet. The men hastily retreated to the safety of the car, pulling out their radios as they went.
“You’re on, Magda,” Aubrey hissed. Magda nodded, closed her eyes, and stretched her hands in the direction of the SUV, twenty feet away. Suddenly, the occupants couldn’t unlock the doors. Trapped inside, they shouted into their radios, but all that could be heard was static. A traffic light down the road began blinking Red, Green, Red, Green. The lights in the building behind the SUV flashed on and off.
“Great!” Aubrey encouraged. “Keep it up!”
Meanwhile, the police officer had met Samantha in the middle of the road. He knelt by her side, his head tilted attentively to catch whatever she was saying. He hugged her, and dried her eyes. Then, the conversation over, Samantha’s orders delivered, he returned to his car. He invited Samantha to come with him, but she merely shook her head, and he shrugged and left her there in the middle of the road. She turned, smiling, and returned to the hide-out.
“Great job!” Aubrey praised. “He’s going to be our escort?”
“Yup,” Samantha confirmed. Then she looked concerned. “He won’t get in trouble, will he?” she asked anxiously. “He’s a nice man!”
“No, no,” Aubrey reassured her. “He’ll be fine!”
A cloud of bats suddenly dissipated beside Aubrey, revealing a smiling Ethan. “Easy peasy!” he said. “The white one is all ready for us. I picked that one because it has a full tank of gas.”
“Good thinking!” Aubrey smiled.
“Okay, gang, let’s go!” Aubrey waved her team forward, and they raced across the street to the garage and the waiting delivery truck. Clouds of bats, directed by Malcolm, fluttered all around them, hiding them in a swarm of living darkness. Ethan had unlocked the doors, so they rushed inside, while Aubrey took the wheel and started their getaway truck up with a roar.
“Jonas! Get that gate open for us!” Using his telekinetic powers, he easily raised the gate, and the truck zoomed through.
“Let me get those cones out of the way,” Jonas offered, lifting them and sending them flying into the windshield of the SUV.
“Samantha! Where’s our police escort?”
“He’s coming,” she assured Aubrey, as her new friend, the policemen, hit lights and sirens and led them onto the highway.
As they drove up the ramp to the highway, Magda turned and focused her energy on the black SUV. All the lights flashed on and off, the engine roared once, then died, and the door locks fused, imprisoning the men inside.
Aubrey drove as fast as she dared, in an effort to get them all to New Day as quickly as possible. It was several hours away, even at these speeds. Every now and then another pursuer would show up, chasing them. But the policeman remained faithful to Samantha’s instructions, providing an excellent escort. Jonas threw a few hazards into the path of anyone who got too close, and Magda stood ready to take out radios, traffic lights, and the engines of cars that caught up to them.
Finally they arrived safely at New Day.
Aubrey smiled her congratulations at her new students, and sent a wave of love and appreciation into their hearts and minds.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
The Sky Is Crying
Laura Brady DePace
Even the sky is crying. The darkness without Reflects the darkness within.
How could you be gone?
You were my sunshine; My blue sky; My joy; My life; My love.
We still have Places to go, People to see, Adventures to share.
We are not done living. We made plans That we haven’t gotten to yet.
We were going to Grow old together. Must I grow old alone? How can I grow old Without you?
The sky And my heart Weep. The darkness swallows the light. The rain Washes Us Away.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
A Dark and Traumatic Future
Marian Wood
The Dark
Are you scared of the dark? The unexplained shadows and the threat of what might lurk out there. Noises that make your heart beat faster. The uninvited thoughts and secrets that the darkness might protect.
Watching the rain jump off the tarmac, so close to inevitable disaster. I have sat here many nights before, but tonight felt different. The rumbling of the storm and the angry speed of the downpour. Has someone upset the Gods? Or is this just bad weather? What is bad weather? Some people would enjoy this storm.
Telling myself to just close the curtains the room is illuminated again as the night explodes, and then I am plunged into the dark. Leaving the window for the kitchen, I try the light switch, No power which means no light and no calming mug of tea.
Seeking refuge under my warm, soft blanket, it’s late. There is no power, and sleep is far away. What is happening out there in the darkness? Imagining cats and wild animals fighting the night raged on.
The Morning After
Waking to the sound of a man’s voice, I’m confused as to how ”Tom Bradby’ ‘could be in my house. Opening my eyes, I then realise that I had left the television on, and there are now pictures of devastation on the screen. While safely lying under my blanket, fearing the explosive rumbles outside in the dark, there had been house fires, floods, fallen trees, and road accidents. They were appealing for volunteers to help at the local shelters to support those who need food and a bed.
Picking up my phone, I found a string of missed calls. I’m sure it didn’t ring, maybe I was too focused on the storm. Listening to Tom it sounded like a different world out there. My phone started buzzing again as messages started to come through. Maybe the mobile networks had gone down with the storm.
A and E
Working in a hospital, I have seen many messes. Today, it was a scene worse than ever before. The messages from the Unit manager to shift myself and get to work had appeared urgent. Unfortunately, I’d only just received them. Walking into the department, I could sense the tension immediately. We were surrounded by bodies and families, some crying, some bleeding. In all the years I’ve worked in Accident and Emergency, nothing had prepared me for this.
Last night must have been the calm before the dark storm, I had left relaxed, and the unit was running on time. Now there were no happy smiles and no time to explain how I hadn’t received the calls and messages.
Walking into the bay I could hear hushed voices. Hesitating to listen, this was like something from a ‘Stephen King’ novel. A storm of this scale had not been reported in many years, What weather forces had caused it? And how had we not been advised of it? It seemed that even the weather forecasters had not been prepared for it. People had lost loved ones and there was no going back.
Could this have been a supernatural event? The dark storm had been sudden and violent, the shock left in its wake was evident. Glancing around the room the casualties were still arriving. Many of them treatable. Nothing had prepared me for what happened next.
The Truth
Would you believe someone who said they are from another lifetime? A parallel timeline crashed with our timeline that shouldn’t have happened, a fluke dark accident. I’ve watched many episodes of Doctor Who, and I love my books. I never thought I might star in one, though.
Pulling back the curtains, I looked at my patient’s chart, Claudia. Looking at the attractive woman, I saw the large bloody graze on her arm. Glancing at the page again, there was a question mark against her NHS number. She was holding her arm close to her body and appeared to want to run. Something was not right here. I could see that she wasn’t comfortable. Introducing myself, I asked her if I could call her Claudia. She hunched herself up and nodded. Asking to look at her arm, she pulled herself away from me. Asking her what was wrong, I was confused when she asked me to please just sit down.
Another Earth
She now started talking quietly.
“I’m from Earth Two, I’m not some nutcase, you need to listen to me, but that’s why I’m not on your NHS computers. Oh, and I’m also from the year 2040, and, well, the NHS no longer exists. It was underfunded and collapsed. People are getting sick and can’t afford private doctors to help themselves to get better. Our scientists developed a way for me to go back to 2024 before the Labour government came into power. Unfortunately, things went wrong, and as well as going back, I’ve crashed sideways.”
I listened and then asked,
“Okay, how am I meant to believe you? And how do you know you can trust me?”
“Because before I left Earth Two we discussed what could go wrong. Crossing between the worlds was a possibility, the massive devastation was not planned”.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a photo and handed it to me.
A Quest
“Okay now I’m confused, how have you got my photo? And how did you know I’m here?”
We meet in 2025 and soon after get married. This is the identical you. After the collapse of the NHS, you give up nursing in 2030. He told me to find you, and you will help”.
“Then why did he not come himself?”
“Because I’m the scientist and you are an A and E nurse. I had to travel back”.
I stood pondering, what can I do? and then I realised what my other me knew. The amount of books I have read and the one person I know who would love to help solve this problem. Somehow, we had to stop the destruction of the NHS. If we stopped it on Earth One it should also be stopped on Earth Two.
“If we can fix this, how do you get home?”
“I have a chip inside my arm. They will pull me back when I’m ready”.
A Friend
Budding politician, and election hopeful Stephen Grace stood in his office. As I walked in with Claudia, he looked up.
“Nicky, what the heck is going on? It sounded urgent on the phone.”
“We have a situation. e need to get into the government manifestos that the NHS stays. Its currently dramatically underfunded, we need to do something now. I can’t tell you everything, but please believe me that if things stay as they are, they will cease to exist, and by the year 2040, there will be many unnecessary deaths. The UK can’t afford privatisation. This needs sorting now. Don’t ask how I know this, you have read enough ‘Stephen King’ novels to work it out for yourself”.
Solution
Two weeks later, Claudia suddenly just left without saying goodbye. The news broadcast then announced that billions were being put into the NHS budget to ensure it would continue for years to come, and there would now be a recruitment drive for care staff, GPs, and dentists. I wondered about the talk of wage increases. Not sure how Stephen had done this, but I was grateful.
The destruction in the dark, caused by storm Claudia, was now being fixed. Families were healing, and homes were being repaired.
A and E
Six months later, I met a lady I recognised. Uni student, Claudia Street had an accident painting her hallway, and here she was in A and E. How do you talk to your future wife when they have never seen you before? Trying to act normal we talked about her injury, we had a relaxed conversation. As she left, she advised me that she is often at the local pub on the corner near the hospital. I knew this was an invitation to more.
I wondered that day what might happen in our 2040. The other Claudia must have been called back because Earth Two was fixed. It sounded like an exciting future, but I didn’t want her crashing between worlds again. Also, if there is an Earth Two, is there an Earth Three, and Four? Maybe one day I will find out, but today I will just focus on the present and nursing,
The rainy season is upon us, and it is time for the July 2024 WTS prompt. Thanks to all who submitted stories in June and those who read their work!
Now for July 2024!
Don’t Forget: The word limit is now approximately 5000 words. We grant some leeway in word count as these stories are written for fun and practice, not for competition. Also, we will no longer do minor editing on these stories.
WU! created this project with two goals: providing a writing exercise and promoting our author sites to increase reader traffic. Please include a link to the Writers Unite! blog when you post your story elsewhere. By doing so, you are also helping promote your fellow members and Writers Unite! We encourage all of you to share each other’s stories to help us grow. Thanks!
The July 2024Prompt!
Images are free use and require no attribution. Image by Pexels from Pixabay.
Here’s the plan:
You write a story of 5000 words or less (minimum 500 words) or a poem (Minimum 50 words) based on and referring to the image provided and post it on the author site you wish to promote. Don’t forget to give your story a title. (Note: You do not have to have a website/blog/FB author page to participate. Your FB profile or WordPress link is acceptable.)
Please edit these stories. WU! will no longer conduct minor editing on your story, so please send in edited work. WU! reserves the right to reject publishing the story if poorly written.
The story must have a title and author name and must include the link to the site you wish to promote.
Send the story and link to the site via Facebook Messenger to Deborah Ratliff or email to writersunite16@gmail.com. Put “Write the Story” in the first line of the message.
Please submit your story by the 25th day of the month.
WU! will post your story on our blog and share it across our platforms— FB, Twitter, Instagram, etc. The story will also be available in the archives on the WU! blog, along with the other WTS entries.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Incident in a Small Town
Kenneth Lawson
LA was a distant haze on a mid-summer day. In the mirror of the Packard, I saw the fog that had become L.A. disappear in the sky as we drove out of town.
As soon as I passed the main expressways, I turned onto a narrow two-lane blacktop road that led northeast. We had no destination in mind, only a plan to get out of town for several days. As we got deeper into the country, the fields we passed became a mix of tobacco, cotton, wheat, corn, and other crops. The occasional tractor sat in a field, sometimes with a wagon behind it or even a large two-ton truck filled with tobacco leaves ready for processing.
Brenda slid along on the car’s bench seat next to me while we drove in silence. I put my arm on the back of the seat, pulling her closer as we spoke without speaking.
The last several months have been partially difficult for both of us. Several cases came to a head and required me to testify for the prosecution. While they won and got convictions, the stress of testifying in a high-profile case over several days had worn on both of us. Getting my name in the paper again had brought out all the wanna-be badasses from the sewer, and several times, I had to talk a kid down from doing something stupid.
Meanwhile, the hours at the bar had begun to take their toll on both of us. The late hours and early starts were getting to wear on us more than usual. We needed a break to decide what to do, so we closed the bar for a week.
While packing the Packard for a road trip, Brenda gave me a “Do you have to?” look when I put two ammunition boxes in my bag. I nodded yes. While I didn’t plan on needing either of my two guns, the forty-five that lived in my shoulder holster or the thirty-eight that usually rode on my belt. I wasn’t about to leave town without them, but one rarely plans to need such things.
As we traveled further, I began to feel the weight of the city lift from my mind. While I loved L.A. and my work helping to make it safe, I’d been doing it since nineteen forty-five, and after five years, I felt weary of the hours and danger. It was time for a change.
It was noon when we pulled into a small town surrounded by open fields of corn and cotton. The main street ran between two rows of buildings with several side streets off the main street. At the corner of one sat a bank, next to it, what looked to have been a hotel. Across the street was a stucco-walled gas station with a two-bay garage on the right side. Junk piled high filled the corners of the bays, and decrepit cars sat discarded around the lot, leaving barely any room to drive in and get gas from the old pre-war pumps.
I recognized the signs of decay instantly as I drove past it. The whole town looked much the same. Main Street looked dusty and dead, as did most of the buildings lining it. Next to the bank was a general store, and the water tower cast a shadow over a sliver of the street. Except for a few lights and cars parked on the street and in a parking lot, one would think the town had died before the war. The one bright and cheerful building in town was the small diner not far away from the gas station and junkyard.
The only thing that kept it alive was at the far end of the main street. Towering over the buildings were the mill and the cotton warehouse, where cars and trucks parked on the broken asphalt that passed as a parking lot. The train tracks we’d bumped over coming into town ran to the right and eventually came out at a small depot and a couple of siding that ran to either of the buildings.
I asked Brenda if she was hungry, and she nodded yes, so I parked the car in front of the diner. As we got out, I took my time locking the doors to look around the street. Old habits never die.
I pushed the big glass door of the diner open, stepped aside for Brenda to enter, and followed her inside. The red-checked tablecloths, bright fluorescent lights, and neon signs hanging in the window beside the door made the diner brighter than outside. Time had aged the once-white walls, rubbed bare in places by years of use. Stools with red leather seats cracked and worn sat along the chrome-trimmed counter. A couple of men were at the bar drinking coffee and eating pie. Despite the age and tiredness of the place, it looked cheerful and welcoming, or at least tried to.
We found a table in the corner by the window where I could see the car and the whole room. The lady who came to get our order seemed as old as the diner.
Short and chubby, her silver hair pulled back in a bun, and her uniform faded on the shoulders. Grease and pen marks stained her apron, and the edges frayed from years of washing. She put a smile on her face and pulled out a notebook from the apron pocket.
“What’ll be?”
“Something cold?” I suggested.
“We got beer, soda, iced tea, and water.”
“How about root beer?” She nodded, and Brenda asked for the same and headed to the counter for our drinks. We ordered a couple of ham sandwiches and drank our root beers, chatting about where we might go from here. When we finished, she came to collect them and asked if we wanted dessert. She suggested a banana split, a milkshake, or a bowl of ice cream. Brenda went for the banana split while I got a vanilla milkshake. We had to admit, the food was good and dessert even better.
I shut the door behind me, and we stood on the sidewalk in front of the diner. I had parked the car at an angle just down from the front of the restaurant. We could see a figure leaning against the front fender from where we stood. As he heard us approaching him, he looked up from the newspaper he was pretending to read. I crowded him a little, and he moved away from the fender.
“Thirty-seven, isn’t it?”
I nodded yes, moving to my right to get to the door.
He turned to face me. “Wanna sell it?”
“No.” I shifted a little but made no move to unlock the door.
“I think you do.” He tried to sound sure of himself.
“Oh, do I? Why?” I stood up square to him, looking at two men on the sidewalk behind him. I figured they were from the warehouse or the mill by their work clothes.
He was baiting me, waiting for me to throw a first punch. I didn’t want to pull my gun if I could help it, but three against one aren’t the best odds. I bided my time. Brenda had moved around behind me. I knew her hand wasn’t far from the revolver in her pocketbook, but I wanted to avoid gunplay if I could.
“Tell you what, what’s your offer? I might consider it.” I was trying to keep him talking and hopefully off balance.
He looked flustered for a second but quickly recovered. “$500. Cash.”
“Nah, I think I’ll pass.” I waited. His face got redder as he tried to work out what to do next. He was trying to get me into a fight. Why, I didn’t know, but I knew I didn’t want to throw the first punch. That’s how you land in jail.
He swung, and I stepped into him and plowed my right fist into his gut while I blocked his arm with my left. As he bent over, I brought my knee up and smashed his face into it. Blood spread all over my pants and his face. He went down to the pavement, and I put my fist up and waited for his cronies to jump in, but they were too far away. By the time they got to me, I blocked what passed as a punch and smashed a fist into the face, sending one guy reeling back. The second guy tried to circle me, then yelled and ran at me. I stepped aside and landed a punch in the gut at the same time grabbing his overalls and pushing forward into the fender of my car. He went down in a heap.
I was breathing hard, and my pulse was flying, and both of my hands ached. I hadn’t punched anyone in a while. I forgot how it hurt. I stepped away from the three men on the ground next to my car.
I looked up to see the woman from the diner standing at the open door, wringing her hands in her apron. Her face was white, and she kept glancing down the street. Brenda and I carefully walked around the three men lying in the street and joined the lady on the sidewalk.
“I’m sorry you ha…” I started to apologize.
She interrupted me. “No… No… It’s not that. I have seen that before. It’s Raymond. He’ll be terribly angry. Come on, let’s get inside before they wake up.” I gilded her back in the open door and shut it behind us.
“Who were they?” I leaned my sore hands on the counter as she went behind it.
“I’m James St. James, and this is my wife, Brenda.”
She smiled and held out her hand. I carefully took it. “I’m Rose, but everyone calls me Mama Rose, and this is my place.”
Rose looked down at my hands, which had swelled at the knuckles. “Let’s get you some ice on those hands.” She disappeared into the back kitchen and returned with two bags of ice. And a couple of mixing bowls. I put a hand in each bowl, and she put a bag of ice over it.
“Thank you, Rose.” I noticed that she kept glancing out the front window. I could tell I was over my head and needed some backup.
“Say, Rose, you got a phone I could use?” I dried my hands off from the ice water. They were feeling a little better, and I could move my fingers.
“Yeah, sure.” She found the phone at the counter’s far end and dragged the cord over to me. I picked up the receiver and listened for the familiar dial tone.
“It’s long distance, that okay?”
“Hunny, out here, everything is long-distance. Oh, and that operator is a nosy bitch. She listens to all the calls that go through her switchboard. She reports back to Raymond.”
Rose busied herself talking the bowls of ice water back to the kitchen while I dialed Bill’s direct number, hoping he would be in.
He answered on the third ring. I plowed ahead before he could identify himself as a cop. “Hey Bill, I thought I check in, I’m out in a little hick town of Somerset. It’s about four hours northeast of you. Listen, I got a car problem. Seems somebody wanted to buy it, but I didn’t want to sell, so things went south, and I’m going to need a second car as soon as you can get it around.”
“Eh, yeah, Jim, I’ll be along as soon as I can. Which car you want me to bring?”
“You know, the old black and white one you used to drive all the time?”
“Okay, I figured as much. I’ll be along shortly.”
I hung up. Knowing full well that the operator would quickly figure out I’d called the cops. I handed the phone back to Rose and thanked her for the ice and the phone call, telling her I thought we better get out of there before Raymond showed up.
She agreed and said she could handle him when he showed, and she was surprised he hadn’t shown by now. Now I thought about it, so was I.
Outside the car was where we left it, but the door had a long scratch marking the black paint from the front fender across both doors to the back fenders. I noted, ignored, unlocked the car, and got in.
We turned around and headed out of town the way we’d come in, but we didn’t go far. Once out of sight of the town and any outlying buildings, I pulled over under some trees.
“Whew, that was close.” Brenda finally slid her hand from her pocketbook.
“Yes, it was. But it’s not over yet. There’s something going on back there. Rose didn’t say it, but I could tell she was scared of this Raymond character. I suspect he has most of the town scared of him.”
“Why the car?”
“Because I suspect he’s dealing in stolen cars, and he had an order for a ’37 Packard 120, with the suicide doors and straight-eight engines. If he could bully me into selling it to him cheap, it would make it easier to resell or pass on. The idiots in the street were probably surprised to see it and figured I was an easy mark.”
“So what do we do now?”
I’m not sure. I don’t want to tangle with this Raymond character until I know more about what’s going on around here.”
I pulled the map from the pile of stuff on the seat next to us. Finding where we were on the map, I carefully checked for the roads and train tracks around the town. As suspected, the train went around the town and spurred off into a couple of short tracks by the old mill and Tabacco warehouse, and another siding went off to an old freight yard. A perfect place to hide cars until you could get them out of there.
Starting the car again, I headed for the nearest dirt road shown on the map.
From the look of the map, it would take us close to the warehouses. I didn’t want to get too close. There was only one reason why Raymond hadn’t shown up immediately after his cronies told him what had happened. He was busy at the warehouse or mill dealing with his stolen cars. If he had a buyer there, he couldn’t just leave. Maybe I’d get lucky and see them too. I wondered as I slowed up behind a stand of trees overlooking the warehouse.
It didn’t take long to get the rest of the way out of town on the dirt road. Several ancient farmhouses and a couple of barns that barely stood dotted the road. After about ten minutes of driving, we were on a small hill overlooking the warehouse mill and train tracks.
I parked behind a clump of trees and what appeared to be the remains of an old shed. Reaching into the back seat, I extracted a pair of binoculars from a leather bag that lived on the floor between the seats.
We got out, quietly closing the doors. We could see most of the train tracks and buildings from here—several fancy cars parked near the main loading dock of the warehouse. I could make out a couple of plate numbers, which I read off and Brenda wrote down, along with descriptions of all the vehicles. Soon, the old steam train pulled out with several cars behind it.
The breeze carried smells of lavender and the promise of the long afternoon ahead of us. Hopefully, Bob got my message and could get some men and head out soon. It would still take him four or more hours to get here. So I had to buy some time and stay out of trouble. I figured we were relatively safe for now.
A Cadillac drove into the lot and dropped three figures off in the open area near the building. A fourth man exited the building and joined them. Through the binoculars, I recognized three of them as the men I’d beat up. The fourth one had to be Raymond.
Indistinct shouting came up through the valley to us. We gasped as a gun appeared, and the sounds of three shots echoed over the land as the three men fell where they stood. Raymond was a mean son of a bitch. Without so much as a glance back, he turned toward the Cadillac. His driver hurried to open his door, and he got into the back seat. The car roared to life and backed out, leaving the three men lying where they fell. We watched as a couple of men came from inside the warehouse, picked up the bodies, and carried them out of sight.
Brenda and I looked at each other in shock. I hadn’t seen such a streak of meanness and disregard for life since the war. “Shit” was all I could get out for several minutes. I figured he would beat them, yell at them, or send them looking for me. But not outright shoot them like that.
Raymond was not too messed with.
Mama Rose. I was worried about Moma Rose. She said she could handle him, but she might not know what a cold-blooded killer he was. When he finds out I made a call, he’s likely to go to the diner.
We quietly backtracked to the main road and found another way around to the back of the town. From where we were behind the building that lined the main street, I could see Raymond’s car pulled in almost where I had been.
The back door to the diner was open, and a couple of fans were blowing warm air from the kitchen outside. They made enough noise to cover us and make it impossible to hear what was happening up front. So, we had no choice but to try to slip in and get as close as we could.
I slipped my pistol from its home under my left shoulder and slid the slide back slightly to make sure there was a round in the chamber. I knew there was. But I still had to check anyway. Brenda pulled her revolver from her pocketbook.
When we left L.A. early this morning, the last thing we expected was to be preparing for a possible gunfight. But here we were.
The face of the Mexican cook in the kitchen lit up, and he grinned when he recognized us. In broken English, he said the jefe was upfront with Moma Rose. He went out the same door we had entered as quickly as he could. I glanced at my watch just before heading for the dining room door. We still had two hours before help came, if it came at all.
Peeking around the corner into the main dining room, I saw Raymond up close for the first time. His red hair was a curly mass atop his head, and the thin, wiry frame that held it up was tall. His clothes looked brand new and well-made, but it was his black eyes that scared me the most. I had seen eyes like that during the war. There was nothing left in them. He had no passion or remorse for the things he’d done, only anger he directed at the nearest target, and right now, Mama Rose was in his sights.
I could hear him yelling at Mama Rose before I got to the swinging door between the kitchen and the front counter. I peeked out and saw he was alone.
“You what? You let him use the phone for long distance.” She nodded yes. “Did you at least get his name?” Raymond settled down a bit.
“He said his name was James.”
I stepped from behind the door with my pistol aimed directly at them. “It’s James St. James, Raymond.” He turned to look at me, and seeing the gun in my hand, he backed up slightly. I raised my eyebrows. “You could have avoided this if your stooge had kept his mouth shut and hadn’t tried to “buy” my car. I’d been out of here and on my way none the wiser, but he had to start something.”
“He won’t be starting anything anymore.”
“I know. The whole town heard the shots.”
“James St. James, where’d you get such a stupid name? And she’s Jane St. James?”
He taunted me. I Ignored the comment.
“You a cop or something?”
“Private cop. But wasn’t working on anything until today.”
“Who’d you call?”
“A friend of mine. He’ll be along shortly with more friends with badges.”
I studied Raymond. There was a lot of anger under that mop of red hair, and up close, those eyes were even more empty than they looked through the binoculars.
I worked my way into the room, standing at the corner of the counter while he stood several feet from me.
“I don’t know what has been going on here. But I have a fairly good idea about some of it.”
“You know what you did to those three guys? You broke one’s nose and busted some teeth and broke his jaw. The other one, you gut-punched so hard it bruised a kidney. And the third one, you gave him a concussion.”
“You put them out of their misery?”
Raymond laughed. “Same as I’m going cut you down to size and put you out of your misery.” He looked directly at Brenda. “Her, on the other hand, I’ll keep around.” He leered at Brenda—the implication clear.
“It’s been tried before by better men than you. I’m still here.” I shifted around a little to try to get into a better position.
“I’m going to enjoy taking you apart piece by piece and then dumping what’s left on a train out of here.”
“Try it.”
“James.” Brenda’s voice sounded calm, but I could detect the note of warning. I glanced over my shoulder and saw two men had slipped in from the kitchen.
One of Raymond’s goons grabbed Brenda’s arms and pulled her to the side. The hairs on my neck prickled, but I was ready. I turned toward Raymond.
“What will it be?”
“A good old-fashioned fight to the death.”
“Tell your goon to let her go.”
He nodded and motioned for her release. He slowly pulled a nickel-plated forty-five from under his windbreaker and handed it to the crony nearest him. “If he wins, shoot him.”
I handed my forty-five to Brenda and told her the same thing. She and Mama Rose stood off to the right side near the door to the kitchen, and Raymond’s two cronies moved to the far side of the dining room.
Raymond and I circled each other once while I took off my jacket and tossed it in the general direction of the counter. His windbreaker went in the opposite direction.
Up close, I could see he was stouter than he looked for his apparent thinness.
As I expected, he lunged at me first. I easily sidestepped him and landed my right fist in his gut. At the same time, I spun and forced him forward onto the tables and chairs behind me.
He crashed into the chairs, landing in a heap with a chair on top. Shaking his head, he pushed the chair off him and got back up. I faced him and waited. The shot to the gut had winded him, and he was breathing hard.
“You son of a bitch.” He picked up the nearest chair and threw it at me.
I deflected the worst of the chair with my arm, but some hit my shoulder, which throbbed from the chair’s impact. We circled again, and this time I pushed him. Stepping up so close I could smell his tobacco breath, as I hammered two punches into him. One in the gut again, and as he bent from that, I pounded his lower back just below his rib cage. I felt my fist hit what I suspected was his kidney and quickly stepped back as he fell to the floor. He lay on the floor for a minute, not moving. I thought he was done, but he managed to get a second wind and get back up much more slowly. The stomach blows had taken some out of him, but he wasn’t ready to quit.
I was breathing hard, and my hands hurt. The air was stagnant, and the overhead fans did little to cool us down. We were both sweating and panting.
A switchblade appeared out of nowhere. I half expected that, but I hoped it wouldn’t get that far. He circled me as he waved the blade around like a flag.
I watched him carefully, looking for the telltale sign he would lunge.
After the third circle in the middle of the dining room, I saw his legs tense up.
My army training took over, and I stepped into him, pushing the arm with the knife to one side. At the same time, I clamped it between my arm and side while twisting the arm backward. At the same time, I heard the distinctive snap of a bone breaking. Something I hadn’t heard since the war. His face turned red with pain, and he hollered as the pain from his broken arm shot through his shoulder. Pushing him back, I hit him in the face, sending blood from his nose and mouth.
Raymond stood not far from me, panting, blood running down his face and his right arm dangling loosely at his side.
“Had enough?” I asked quietly between breaths. He shook his head no and circled me again. He wasn’t going to stop until he was out cold or dead.
He tried to lung at me again. I stepped right into him, pounding my fist into his gut and then hitting his face, fist with my left, and as he moved, I caught it again with my right fist. He went down again. This time, I crowded him, kicking his ribs and planting one foot firmly on his broken arm.
“It’s over.” Brenda quickly handed me my pistol, and I aimed at his cronies.
“Don’t even think about it. First, he gets it, then you do. Put the guns down.
~~~
I was soaking my hands with ice when I saw Bob’s old cruiser through the diner’s front window. Raymond’s two cronies were locked in Mama Roses’s storage room, and Raymond was tied to a heat registrar by his good arm. The nickel-plated forty-five was lying on the counter next to me.
Bob walked in, shook his head, and grinned. “You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”
I shook my head no. “It seems to find me even when I’m not looking.”
He motioned to a man who came in with him. “This is Chief of Detectives Rogers of the State Police. When you mentioned Somerset, it rang a bell. I checked, and I found a bulletin that mentioned it. So, I called my contact at the State Police. They’ve been watching Raymond here for some time but hadn’t had a justified reason to raid him.” He looked over to Raymond, who had started to wake up with all the conversation.
I shook Rogers’ hand. “You have plenty of reason to look around now. There are three dead guys hidden somewhere down at the warehouse. Brenda and I will testify that we saw him shoot them— with this.” I held up the fancy pistol.
While talking, two uniformed officers picked Raymond up none too gently and hauled him out to a squad car. I pointed to the back. “Two more of his goons are locked in her storeroom. Also, somewhere around there, you should find many stolen cars waiting to be shipped out.”
Chief Rogers nodded, thanked me, and left.
Epilogue
It was over a week before we came back to L.A. Meanwhile, the raid and arrest story made the L.A. papers and the national news. Before we left Somerset, we helped Moma Rose get her diner back in shape and get on her feet again. Living under Raymond’s thumb had been bad for business, and most of the town suffered in one way or another.
I spoke quietly with Rose about her Mexican cook, and she made sure the State Police never saw him. At least he wouldn’t be deported back to Mexico.
After that, Brenda and I packed up the Packard and headed north into the mountains. We spent several days fishing, relaxing, and talking a lot there.
While we didn’t make any plans for when we came back, we knew we needed to take more time and not let the bar or my business run our lives.
The LA sun was setting when we turned off the little dirt road into the main expressway leading to L.A. It was comforting and yet a little disconcerting at the same time. We drove past The Open Door Bar on the way home. Except it had been closed for almost two weeks, it looked the same as the last day we locked it up. A big part of me wasn’t in any hurry to open it again anytime soon. We could decide later.
We pulled into our driveway in a residential section of town and sat quietly for several minutes, absorbing the sights and smells of home.
L.A. was, indeed, The City of Angels, and I had mine right here with me.
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Creamy Pudding, Love, and Friendship
Marian Wood
Pudding
Do you prefer a pudding or a starter? Avoiding a starter to keep room for pudding, or forcing down that dessert and risk seeing it again later in the most disgusting way. Sweet tasty goodness or a healthy prawn cocktail. What is the etiquette in this situation? I’m not sure, but I’m guilty of forcing down all three settings, pudding is always my favourite.
Sitting here, scraping the rich creamy cake off my plate, I resist the urge to stick my tongue out and lick it. Too many people were watching, too much judgement.
Dinner with a friend, this is what tonight should be. Things are not always what they seem. Watching Lou scrape her bowl clean of custard, life was about to change. I now know that leaving things unsaid is the worst plan. If you have something important to say, you must say it. Unless it’s going to hurt them, weigh up your options carefully.
Sharing
Telling Lou about Frank should have been easy, so why was I eating and not sharing. Friendship should be a good thing. There shouldn’t be painful questions. I should be able to just tell her, but how?
I have known Frank longer than Louise. We met at Birchwood Secondary. He was popular, always with the same group of tough kids. Tall, wavy brown hair and a handsome smile. Many girls fancied him, but I never trusted him. He had a calm swagger that set him apart. Some would say that he had the ‘gift of the gab”. Me, I didn’t like his cool cockiness.
Working for a local newspaper, I now often had my nose in other people’s business. Incidents of burglary in the area have increased dramatically and the police seem to be doing very little about it. Interviewing the old lady, a known gossip working in the sweet shop, and often referred to as ‘Miss Marple’ she had named two of her suspects. I know these two and they were friends with Frank at school. Alarm bells are ringing in my head.
Questions
Lou and Frank have been together for nearly two years and in that time, he has gone from one dead end job to another. Now he is working in a furniture warehouse but has somehow just proposed to her with a shiny diamond ring. I’m not a jeweller but I know this is not a cubic zirconia. How did he afford it? He couldn’t, unless he had savings but Frank has never struck me as the sort of man to plan ahead.
Looking at my friend, I can see she is happy. Talking about her wedding and future plans, how could I spoil this with suspicions? Maybe I should talk to the police first. Thinking all this over, Lou suggests more pudding and then asks me an unexpected question.
“How much would you earn selling furniture?”
I thought for a moment, “It’s retail, maybe about £1000 a month after tax and national insurance.”
“So expensive jewellery and a new car, doesn’t seem right, does it?”
“Does Frank save money, Lou?
“Don’t think so, do you remember Joe? I think you were at school with him.”
“Yes, I know him, bit of a thug at school.”
“Jess, he still is. I think I’ve got a problem. I want to marry Frank but things are not adding up, he is also so often making excuses to not be at home”
Taking Lou’s hand, I now tell her my thoughts. Maybe pudding would make this conversation easier.
Frank
In and out of work for years, but always active in the gym, Frank now had it made. If it wasn’t for the bunch of thugs he called his mates life would be easier. Lying to them and lying to Lou to protect her, he had no choice. Joe had always been the ring leader of their gang and he had turned it from playful boy trouble to crime. Hiding his true interests to his mates had been hard and he hadn’t told Lou as he didn’t want her hurt.
Volunteering for months and now a recent recruit to the police force, Frank had been put undercover in a furniture warehouse. Employed to watch Joe and monitor the tricky goings on of the warehouse manager. Supply and demand but the figures were not adding up. Far too much money was changing hands and things were not as they seemed. Introduced by Joe, Frank knew he needed to investigate further.
The salary had been welcomed, and he had soon purchased a ring for the love of his life. His next thoughts were a car, but they needed to pay for their wedding.
Louise
Watching Louise, I could see she didn’t want to believe me.
“Jess, I can agree that Joe might be a true thug, but not Frank. Something is going on, but it can’t be this. That lady didn’t say Frank did she? You could be putting two and two together and making five. Frank is taking care of himself, exercising, but I know there is more to this.”
“Well, how do we find out?”
“You’re the journalist, think, and don’t just go on what ‘Miss Marple’ says.
Pudding and Talk
A week later we sat in another cafe. More creamy delicious pudding, and life has moved on. Louise has made Frank talk to her after giving him an ultimatum. She needed the truth. After finding out he was working for the police and not selling furniture she felt relieved. Frank hasn’t told her more, just that he has already said enough and needed to keep her safe.
I am happy for Lou but still wondering about Joe and Frank and the rest of the story. Wanting my friend to be happy and hoping that Frank really has finally sorted himself out. A career as a police officer suits him well, but I’m sure he will not be discussing this anytime soon with his thuggish friends.
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