Fiction 2, Chapters 11 & 12
Copyright © 1992
Chapter 11
"There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past-..."
Dreamland, Edgar Allan Poe.
Stretch had given me two sets of keys.
One set was for a green Pontiac two-door hard-top, used but not abused __parked on the north side of a stand of Live Oak trees, near an art studio owned by his aunt. She lived during the business week in Corpus, -that's what the natives call it- where she worked as a commercial artist. It was adjacent to the campground but not easily accessible from it, not even on foot. The driveway from the main road was under repair __and only barely passable__ and an exit from it onto a back road wasn't visible from anywhere around the campground.
Stretch had purchased and registered the Pontiac in his name in near-record time __with my money, of course. He'd get the car to keep when I was through with it.
If I could continue to enter and exit my trailer unobserved through the hatch, it should be possible to go wherever I wanted without a tail. I could limit myself to nocturnal prowling or stay away a full day. No observer would expect me to be very sociable under the circumstances.
The second set of keys was for two small cottages on Copano Bay, about six miles north of Rockport after a long causeway, the "LBJ." There was a garage, as well, he'd said. The family property was in the general area of a vacation home development called Holiday Beach. Stretch's father and aunt owned the land in common, and seldom used it except in summer.
There was a bonus thrown in when I reached the car, a Remington 11-87 Deer Gun, a five-shot semi-automatic twelve-gauge shotgun, and ten boxes of five shells each. A welcome sight to warm the cockles of my Irish rebel heart. The contents of two boxes were evenly distributed in my pockets, and the shotgun was determined to be fully loaded, and the safety engaged.
The term "overkill" had never seemed more appealing.
Feeling reassured by the heavy artillery, I followed the instructions tucked over the sun-visor and fifteen minutes later drove up to and past my destination. The hide-out premises were on a peninsula called Newcomb Point and the road dead-ended about a mile further on. A service pier and building stood at the end of the road, but they looked deserted. There were no other residences along the road; it wasn't really part of Holiday Beach proper.
I drove back and parked off the road behind some shrubbery. The car was far enough away to be out of sight there, but near enough to easily walk to my temporary home away from my home-away-from-home. The shotgun at port-arms, I acted like local landed gentry strolling out to slay a poacher or two after dinner.
The Lord of the Manor.
Their property was on the water technically, although the buildings were surrounded by woods. Only one path __about a tenth of a mile long, maybe two city blocks__ led from the central compound to a long, narrow wharf on the bay.
Both cottages were quite similar, with kitchen, bath, living room, mud-room and a large and small bedroom. Nothing special, just cinder block with an asphalt shingle, slightly peaked roof. Except for a small fireplace chimney, there were no openings through either roof for access.
The only garage was attached to the second unit.
The buildings were built on concrete pads, without basements, and each had a deck with the patio door facing the sunset and the main entrance on the opposite side. Their windows were all horizontal casement.
Not bad!
Since there was plenty of time, it occurred to me to check out both buildings' interiors. There was nothing unexpected in the first, but the second made up for it where the master bedroom should have been. It contained a gallery, a small gallery with a very selective group of paintings.
I didn't want to turn on the lights, even though the shades were drawn, so a search by penlight would have to do until morning. This room had two skylights, but keeping the light's beam down should be secure enough for me to go unnoticed, given the lack of immediate neighbors.
Between the skylights there was a row of track lights, each facing a framed painting as well as the upper walls. Most of the paintings were just stretched and resting on the floor, leaning against walls. The framed works hung on the walls at eye-level, and there were a number of easels in service, as well. The portraits, for that's what they all were, all had two things in common: they were unsigned, and of similar subjects, a young girl and a much younger boy at different ages. The children were running and playing, laughing and occasionally sleeping, inseparable.
But never sad.
And perhaps a third common denominator: It was possibly easier to see in the darkness with a small pinpoint light. There seemed to be a shadow somewhere in each painting __a witness in hiding, maybe__ or a premonition. It probably wouldn't be there the next morning.
It was.
So was she.
I had moved into the first cottage the night before, not wanting to intrude on the nexus of strong emotion that the gallery's works represented. I hadn't expected any company so soon, and no friendly company at all.
Well, not that friendly, after all.
I unlocked the front door of the second cottage in the morning and reentered the gallery. It was about eight o'clock. There were many things that had to get done that day, but the gallery had drawn me back like the gravity well of a black hole. I took a notebook out of my pocket and wrote a stanza down; the last stanza of a poem I had once written in an attempt to clarify why some of my poetry was too personal to share.
"Why do I hold these poor songs that I choose,
away from those who might sing them with me?
So many spent; there are no more to lose.
they're all that remain of my soul, you see."
The sheet was torn out but refused to lie down. Instead, it found a place to hide in my shirt pocket. As much as I wanted to share what I felt in that chamber of the artist's heart __to say that the bearing of burdens may be shared, even if the burden itself may not__ I couldn't be that selfish. The artist would certainly be Stretch's aunt, and she was more entitled to her illusion of privacy than I was to a grand gesture.
Guess who held a shotgun on me just about then?
She said, "Put your hands over your head, now!"
The Aunt, I presume. The artist was in residence.
I did, of course. Raise my hands, that is. Her weapon was the spitting image of the one that had arrived with me. Embarrassing! Unnerving!
"I'd appreciate it if you'd call Stretch to find out who I am before you shoot, not after." It was easy to act ingratiating under the circumstances.
"I know who you are, Mr. Quirk. If I shoot you, it will not be out of ignorance. It will be due to pique." Her eyes flashed; I swear it.
Pique?
Stretch had apparently had second thoughts about disbursing the largesse of his family, singlehandedly, and called his aunt in Corpus Christi to let her know what he had done. I had insisted on both sets of the cottage keys as a practical matter __a matter of self-defense__ and he had not warned me of any sanctum sanctorum to avoid.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I was here last night, although I didn't mean to intrude, and was deeply affected by these in some way." I offered that in explanation, with a mild gesture. It wouldn't do to alarm her at the moment. "I was drawn back to the shadows, ma'am"
Visibly startled, she put down the gun and turned to the kitchen. Following her out of the gallery, I asked, "What now?"
"Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Quirk?"
"Yes! I mean, thank you, I would, ma'am." -It sure beat getting my balls shot off-
"It's not ma'am, it's Ms.; Ms. Carpenter."
"Then, yes, thank you. I would, Ms. Carpenter." I sat down at the kitchen table, facing toward her.
She sat down at the table across from me and asked, "What were you writing, Mr. Quirk, when I came upon the scene?"
I took the page from my pocket and gave it to her.
After a minute, she asked, "May I keep this, please?"
"Of course, I'm glad you'd like to, Ms.____"
"Please call me Katherine and I'll call you Richard, if I may?"
"That would be nice, Katherine. But I have to warn you that I'm trouble's first name right now. Had I known what __and whom__ I would find here, I would have taken refuge elsewhere."
"Leonard thought that you would be safe here if you kept a low profile."
"Leonard?" I asked, shocked. I couldn't believe that he had run that good a "sandy" on me.
"It's really 'Stretch,' it really is!" she confided, with a smile. "The 'Leonard' is just my pet nickname for him."
She was still smiling as she got up and puttered around the sink and stove. When the coffee finally finished dripping into the pot, she poured two cups and brought them over.
"Milk or sugar, Richard?"
"Yes and no."
"Make up your mind!" she demanded with a twinkle.
"I don't use make-up, Katherine."
I just realized how rude I've been, keeping Katherine to myself. You must be very curious about her. Tall, up to my chin in flats; slender, but I wouldn't hold that against her.
The good tooth fairy had never had to deal with any save her milk teeth, and her hair was silver, whiter-than-white silver. A heart-shaped face supported an arsenal of smiles ranging from sly to all-out dazzling. She reminded me of someone I had long ago loved and lost: beautiful, not yet forty and possessing long, slender legs. Her breasts were definitely not long and slender but full and pert and they bobbled gently, unconfined within a peasant blouse. A full leather skirt and bolero jacket, china-blue eyes and a gently arched nose completed the picture.
Our disconnected small-talk might seem premature to you, but it really happens that way sometimes. Persons who can be whimsical __without the bitterness of sarcasm__ recognize the rest of the fraternity on sight.
There is no need for a secret handshake.
"Are you married, Katherine?" I hoped that she wasn't.
"Widowed."
"Me, too. Any children, then?" I asked.
"No, we were never fortunate enough to have children." The shadows in the paintings hid behind her eyes.
More mysteries. Why are there always more mysteries? Maybe she was waiting for a question about the paintings, but would that question be welcome? I decided to trust her confidence in my reserves of patience and her doubts concerning the limits of my empathy and understanding. I asked nothing.
"Did you and your wife have any children, Richard?" She had segued from my silent question directly to hers.
"No, we didn't. To tell the truth, I don't think we missed them."
"My husband, Frank, did; although it didn't bother me a great deal at the time. It was later, after he died of a heart attack, that I realized what we both had missed. Children change a marriage, I believe, and add a dimension of survival that it would not otherwise possess."
It was time to get down to brass tacks. "Katherine, I hope that you'll trust me in this. I've got nowhere else to go or I would. Just the fact that I've come here once has compromised the security of your property. Even if you want me to go __and I go away right now__ it won't be safe for you to stay here for a while. It would even be best if you take your paintings away. There's a risk that they'll be damaged or destroyed if they remain, not to mention the risk to you."
"The risk to me?" Again there was a twinkle in her eyes.
"I asked you not to mention that." Another Maxwell Smart cultist.
She hasn't thrown me out yet. That's good, I figured. "Seriously, there'll be danger here and I'll be hard put to keep myself alive, much less anyone or anything else. Take your paintings, the ones of the children."
"Those children aren't real people, Richard," she said. "They're just a sort of substitute for the real thing, and I haven't been in that room in four years. It doesn't matter now. We've been trying to sell this property for years, without success. Would you like me to call the police after I leave?" The telephones in the cottages were disconnected for the winter season.
I shook my head. "No, I'll have to handle it myself. The cops will just get me killed, with the best of intentions."
"Why are you so sure that the killers will find you here?" She was puzzled.
"Because I'm going to lead them here." I took a chance on her -what would you call it?- "street smarts," and gave a slightly spruced-up history of the last week. I wasn't really surprised when she accepted the need for a solution with rational roots, as they say in mathematics.
"Why not postpone it for a day or two?" she asked. "Is there really a hurry?"
"Yes and no. The longer they wait, the more impatient and careless they should be. On the other hand, they may have an more of an opportunity to get reinforcements. In a few days, your police may notice that I'm not where I'm supposed to be and, if they want to, they'll have the resources to find me quickly. But, I think a day or two will be all right. I have to go into Corpus for a few items anyway, today."
"I'll drive you there and bring you back, if you don't mind. Then, I'll leave you to it and, perhaps, ask around about David for you," she offered.
I didn't think that would be the safest thing to do under any other circumstances except these. However, I planned to keep Mr. Big busy being dead for a long while very shortly. At the very least, he'd be too busy to worry about her asking the right questions in the wrong places for quite some time.
If I bought the farm instead, his search was over by default.
I was still worried about her helping me, even that far. "These men have killed already, twice possibly. To be honest, Katherine, what I know about them frightens me. I have to know that you'll stand clear of any action personally, and also, not call the Law. There's nothing that can be proven. I don't even know their names. They'll be confessing to murder when they come after me but __apart from that__ there's nothing that can be pinned on them. Except by me, an eye for an eye. No matter how hard I try to avoid it, sooner or later they'll find me and I won't know until it's too late. It's got to be here; it's got to be soon."
She met my gaze squarely.
But, how could I expect her to appreciate my position? I'm not a man of action by any reasonable definition. I have a collector's or an armchair historian's interest in weaponry and tactics. My military experience has been limited to being a forward observer of artillery fire and air strikes, hardly a practical preparation for the O. K. Corral. My Army MOS also covered Intelligence, but James Bond would never have thought me to be any kind of a threat.
The strategy was straightforward: "The best defense is a good offense." The tactics were based on the military wisdom of Nathan Bedford Forrest: "Get there first with the most." My weapons were simple; the choices were clear and the course of action determined by an inexorable logic, the logic of Sherman: "A perfect sensibility of the measure of danger, and the mental willingness to endure it." He probably stated that before the Civil War.
Sherman also declared: "War is Hell," I think. Most likely that sentiment was expressed during and forever after the Civil War.
With all of that said, I still realized that I was acting on principle, -not an ethical or moral principal, I know- and principles cannot often be distinguished from fanatical premises. The difference may not be distinguishable even by the holder, much less the beholder.
I tried a wry smile, and admitted my chagrin. "I feel foolish, like a poor man's John Wayne. How could I expect you to understand it? But honestly, I've got no real choice in this."
"I do understand," she stressed. "It's your fight, Richard, and I believe that you have a better notion of how you should handle it than I could. And I'd rather not endanger myself, my nephew or you in a display of loyalty to someone that I've just met."
She paused only to finish her coffee.
"My permission to stay here is as far as I can go to help you. And that's only because my nephew likes you and thinks you're a dead man if you go back to Rockport. Is that clear?"
"Yeah," I agreed. "That's what I want to hear. Maybe you could help me with this list though. I'm going to need to find a Radio Shack, a home-security distributer, a military surplus and a big hardware store. There's nothing illegal on the list, at least not in Texas, but some of the items may not be too easy to get."
"I'll be happy to," she said, immediately giving the lie to her prior disclaimer. "Is there anything that won't fit in the trunk of a Chevy Caprice?" Katherine asked, validating her enlistment.
Then she started to clear the table.
My request had been phrased to allow a broad range of positive responses, from road-map consultant to gun-moll. Her response was right up the middle; chauffeur. For a day, what harm could it do?, I wondered.
"No, I don't think so. And thanks, Katherine. If we're going to use Route 35, though, maybe I'd better fit into the trunk." I said it with a smile but it might not have been a bad idea.
"Just slouch down in the seat. Do you have sunglasses or a hat with you?"
"Both," I answered.
Katherine picked up my spoon and cup, putting it in the sink. "Then let's get going to Corpus. I'll buy you brunch on the way."
Brunch was a daydreamer's dream come true.
We were seated on the veranda of an hotel dining room, enjoying a command performance by the sail-boards cavorting in the mild water just off the beach. There must have been two or three dozen of them __all with crimson sails__ interweaving in the stiff breeze, and mating on the move like porpoises. The hotel was just north of the Neuces Bay Causeway in Corpus Christi, and the sun and the wind took their turns playing with us.
"It's been a long time since I enjoyed a civilized meal in such pleasant company," I confessed. -Too damn long!-
Katherine deflected the compliment. "The hash browns here, are why I come. I know they're bad for me, but I still have to get my fix at least once a month."
She was right. They were outstanding, cooked till almost burned here and there __with just enough onion__ in the grease of miscellaneous meat. A work of deadly art. The eggs over lightly, just firm, sprinkled with black pepper, and crisp fennel and sage-flavored sausages, were examples of what Americans do best. Forget boiled bacon, kippers, mixed grills, crepes and the crap the rest of the world thinks of as brunch. Although the champagne and croissants had been good, as well.
As had the conversation.
Trying not to belch, I plied my worldly charm, "I'm glad we didn't meet under happier circumstances. I'm afraid all the grease I just absorbed would be my undoing." I did a bit from "My Fair Lady." "He oiled his way across the floor, oozing charm from every pore. Never was there a ruder pest, than that hairy hound from Budapest."
She did Mae West. "Is that a grease spot, or are you just happy to see me?" Her right arm primped the back of her hair, lifting one elegant breast to prominence while she sniffed in three-quarter profile, and struck a pose for me.
A very nice pose. Katherine's right breast poked an impudent tip into the thin material of her blouse, and a blushing coronet around the protrusion helped to mark the spot.
Even though the lady wasn't trying to be seductive __and probably didn't realize that the bolero jacket was agape__ she had no difficulty in shrinking my underwear to painful dimensions. Her mind over my matter.
I'm definitely happy to see you, I thought.
I was beginning to put something in personal perspective that I had once read. Namely, that clams mate when the males eject clouds of tiny sperm, triggering a similar ejection by any females in the general neighborhood. The conditions have to be just right for ejaculation and fertilization to occur. When an individual clam is successfully attacked by a predator, however, the mollusk's last desperate act is to open its shell. It welcomes death in that way, in order to permit the immediate and complete ejection of its sperm or eggs in the biological hope __however unlikely__ of surviving through its potential offspring.
Katherine and I shouldn't necessarily start trying to make babies right then and there, but I was starting to think further ahead than a few days, which perhaps was a mistake.
Or perhaps not!
In any event, the alarm was probably close to going off on her biological clock, but the urge had little to do with logic.
It lasted all the time we had and ended too soon, and that is the story of my life. There's a line from a movie: something to the effect that it doesn't matter so much how strongly we love someone else, as much as how much we love the person we become when we are with them. I had sort of liked Katherine's companion that morning; he was a lot nicer than I am.
Let's talk for a few minutes about a really sweet guy, Stretch.
A young man for all seasons, as long as they're not too hot or too cold. There's nothing wrong with him. If you gave him an IQ test, he'd do all right. He's got an ordinary amount of intelligence but he just doesn't know what to do with it.
Stretch holds down a job that no one else wants. He doesn't like it either, or dislike it, for that matter. It's just something in his way, on the way from morning toward six-pack time in front of the television set.
There's a beat-up old Shasta trailer in the back of the campground. Could be it's a city block, even two, from the bathroom up by the office. The Shasta is only fourteen feet long, and so old that it still has those stubby trailing wings they used to mount on the back.
The distance from the bathrooms is worth mentioning because the Shasta's bathroom isn't.
The point is that Stretch's quality of life is not outstanding __not even for a twenty-five year old living on his own__ and the exalted position of campground manager barely supports him, his trailer, a junker to drive and that evening six-pack, with a salary and benefits package closely tied to the minimum wage.
Oh, yes, his proudest possession is a Visa card, on which he pays the minimum payment each month. He works like a demon, morning, noon and night, and loves his life, if not his job.
It's not as though Stretch hasn't known a better way of life.
His parents, Katherine's sister and her husband, live a pretty nice, middle-class existence __from what I hear__ based on hard work, ambition and common sense. Some oil-producing property used to be a help; although these days the pressure is so low that it costs almost as much to pump as it nets. At least, that's what the oil company claims.
Like many American kids, Stretch will probably never even touch the lifestyle of his parents. He's a hard worker for peanuts, for scraps. You'd say he wasn't ambitious if you didn't know him. You'd be wrong.
There have been quite a few evolutionary dead ends in the fossil record: Java Man, Peking Man, Neanderthal Man.
Make way for Infomercial Man. That's the boy who believes what we tell him about Lotteries and the American Way of Life. The one who finds hope in what he hears on late night television. They are often mated to Shopping Club Women.
It's odd that perhaps fifty years since the last bar served the last complimentary sandwich, so many people are willing to buy a "free" lunch.
Stretch is one such.
Last year, he sent away for one of those "Alternative Cash Flow" seminar packages. That's the one where you buy some property __with money you don't have, backed by credit you can't get, and with rents you can't collect__ you cash in on the equity you haven't accumulated. Simple! Yes, a little.
The year before was less expensive, but no less ineffective.
Stretch was guaranteed a career, writing lyrics for country and western composers, if he passed a simple qualifying test. The acknowledgment of his genius took almost no time at all to return. There was considerable encouragement and the heartfelt advice that his prepaid investment in professional promotional materials and services would certainly be a judicious one.
Even if I hadn't spilled some coffee a few months later, I'd not have assumed that Tin Pan Alley was accompanying his lyrics with a real tin pan. But there was a dusty roll of paper towels in the corner of the office and when I picked it up to wipe up the spill, I found his test underneath it.
Fortunately for his musical career, he had written his return address on the empty envelope.
"You know, Dick, I'm starting to get discouraged about my career."
"How long has it been, now?" I asked him.
"Over three months," he said,
"Well, Stretch, I would say that you've probably paid all you should pay until you see some results from these people. What do you think?"
"What kind of results?"
Some responses within the human spectrum of communication are inherently less promising than others. If he ever starts dialing those telephone-sex 900 numbers, he's a goner.
* * * * * * * * * *
-Tha gyuck's a plab-
He's an innocent.
* * * * * * * * * *
It's not likely that you'd classify most of my friends, acquaintances and family as innocents. Stretch is quite the exception, just as I am. I call myself a Traveller now, but a life of relative ease could not prepare me to be a genuine Traveller.
It's more than a matter of heredity and language.
I can always pick up my marbles and go home, or at least I could before I got into this mess. Now I know a little more about the Travelling Life than I did before.
* * * * * * * * * *
Even with three men staking out the trailer park and one each on the bridges, the house in Ingleside seemed to be getting more and more like a confining coop. Two of the others were sent back to the motel they had stayed in before the house was rented, but that was only at night.
The Chairman was getting cabin fever trying to endure the company of his lessors, and unable to relax his guard in front of Weller. The only part of the day he looked forward to, was watching Geraldo in the afternoons in the privacy of his bedroom, with Garth an occasional attendant. He had never realized that there were so many interesting stories to occupy his attention. It was almost as if Rivera knew of his interests and was determined to cater to them. Tomorrow would be Sweeney Todd Day, when the show's guests would all be victims of barber shop mayhem and the barbers who had mutilated them.
It's wonderful! he thought. An entire world was out there, that he had never known before.
Chapter 12
"You knit with great skill, madame."
"A pretty pattern too... May one ask what it is for?"
"That depends. I may find a use for it one day."
A Tale Of Two Cities, Charles Dickens.
The nature of the items that I hoped to buy that day in Corpus would be determined by the first element in my strategy: I had to commit a homicide that was legally justifiable. There was no sense in saving my life with an act that would draw twenty or more years in prison.
At my age, that is my life.
It seemed too much of a gamble to hope that I'd be able to draw out a kingpin __even a would-be counterfeiting kingpin__ then identify, isolate and assassinate him, without leaving tracks that would incriminate me.
Counterfeiting is not normally an occupational selection for hardened, violent criminals.
Roxanne's killing hadn't been carried out with Uzis, silenced .22's or any other hallmark of a "hit." The killer, "Jaws" probably, had borrowed one of my knives to kill her, or have her killed, quite likely in a frustrated rage at not finding what the money man undoubtedly considered his rightful property. If his act hadn't been immediately impulsive, he would have taken the time to do it more horribly. It might be that the head man sincerely regretted that action. And, if he had been a position to prevent it, he would have avoided such a risky and irrational act, an act that had gained him nothing.
Had not so much money been involved, I would have indulged myself with the hope that he had panicked and run away. The kidnap attempt eliminated such speculation.
None of that helped me much. The money man definitely had a rational motive to seek me out: He thought that I had his goods. And having tortured me, or had me tortured __for information that I didn't possess__ there was no way that he could leave me behind alive as a hostile witness and potential avenger.
The man with the yellow pearlies would attend to the details.
The upshot of all this soul-searching was this. Suppose he and his friends came to my party, and I massacred them straight out. I would be up the river for what might as well be infinity.
The way I saw it, my killing ground could be passively fortified, but I couldn't just dynamite the first car that pulled into the driveway of Stretch's family compound. The muscle could be demoralized and dispersed __but not killed out of hand, unless it was necessary self-defense__ and at least a reasonable proposition to that effect could be established.
I had to find a way to separate them from their leadership and, in that way, also get their leader away from the protection that they afforded. If I got a good safe shot at the man with the matches, all bets were off as far as any restraint was concerned. The contempt was turning to rage and the extra risk of incarceration was worth the satisfaction.
There was no choice for me except to kill the money man, but only within the context of an unavoidable response to an obvious attack, perhaps even as an apparent accident or falling out among thieves. So far, I hadn't a clue how to do it.
Conventional wisdom -several hundred paperback mysteries and westerns that I've read- states that, if you take out the "payor," the "payees" will fade away, even "Jaws." That was the strategy. Do I appear overconfident?
I wasn't, not really. There were a million things to go wrong, and only a poor chance that everything would go right, but it was my best chance to avoid being barbecued again. That's a powerful motivator.
The first store was the Radio Shack.
I picked up some small tools, six rolls of low-voltage twisted-pair wire, red and black, miscellaneous parts, a scanner for the CB/emergency bands and a household burglar alarm. The last item was the type with remote magnetic sensors that have their own batteries, and use radio waves to signal the main unit. We bought lots of sensors. Also, a master case of nine-volt transistor radio batteries, four dozen lantern batteries, a dozen battery chargers and three bull-horns. Better safe than sorry. Actually, we had to go to three Radio Shacks before we were finished.
"What's all this stuff for?" they inquired.
"My wife despises rodents," I advised.
Then to the military surplus store.
One thing I needed there was some tear gas grenades, just cans of gas under pressure, but they had the pin-and-handle release of a hand-grenade. Naturally, a mask too. Another thing I wanted was a Star-light scope. That's a light amplifier similar to, but a lot lighter and better than the old-time snooper-scope. They didn't stock it. But they promised to have it the next afternoon by courier truck from their supplier in San Antonio, as long as I paid in advance for the scope and transportation.
Believe it or not, it was Russian manufacture. Soviet war-surplus from Afghanistan; only abandoned once.
Thank God for credit-cards.
"What's all this stuff for?" they inquired.
"My wife hates raccoons," I apprised.
Speaking of credit, I remembered to stop at an ATM, a cash machine. I might need running money, so I'd stop again the next day, as well, for another two hundred.
On to the home-security distributors.
They wanted cash from a stranger like me; although they settled for traveller's checks. I bought two dozen of those infra-red activated solar powered back yard lights. You've probably seen them in catalogs: They charge in the sun all day __and whenever the sensor detects a warm body in motion at night__ the light comes on. They're supposed to be good for hours of light, if you can believe it. I didn't care about the solar panels. My choice of that type was because they don't require house current to operate.
Add to that, a radio-controlled activator and four dozen remote relays for turning on house lights from outside. That's supposed to scare off thieves lying in wait for John Q. Homeowner, and it's another catalog favorite. The counterman had a technician set the DIP switches for me on the remotes, so that half the relays were set to the same location number "0," and the other twenty-four individually from "1" to "24".
"I'll bet you want to know what all this stuff is for," I inquired.
"Your wife is afraid of coyotes," they surmised.
Nobody at the hardware distributor wanted to know what all of the electrical tape, twenty-penny nails or shotgun shells were for. No one in the notions department had any notions, either. We picked up a few things at a major automotive distributor before we left.
Katherine let me know that there was a step-ladder in her cottage, fortunately; that item wouldn't have fit in the trunk. As it was, we had to take the solar lights out of the boxes to fit them in, even using the back seat as well.
I was suddenly, overwhelmingly tired of them: the deaths that went before and the ones to come. It was an exhausted desperation, not a desire for love, that pushed me toward Katherine then.
"I still have to wait until tomorrow to pick up the scope. Is there someplace around here with a good sunset, where I can buy you dinner? Then you can drop me off at a motel, or whatever."
She took a long, long second to reply. "There's a lovely sunset view from my apartment, and I cook a mean spaghetti dinner. How about that?"
Her offer seemed like a last-minute reprieve.
"Sounds terrific!" I responded. "Would you mind stopping at a men's clothing store first? I'm not going to be able to handle today's underwear, tomorrow."
"___Richard?"
"Yes, Katherine?"
"The couch is very comfortable."
"I'd like to thank you for sharing that with me."
* * * * * * * * * *
-Munya, mishlietu culla ina luffee seeche chat-
Wonderful, sleeping on a lousy couch.
* * * * * * * * * *
The Chairman left Weller in charge, absolutely certain that nothing would happen that required his attention, and had Garth drive him to a movie house in Corpus Christi where they were showing "The Godfather." He hadn't been to a movie theater since high school, but couldn't resist when he saw the ad in the paper for this particular picture. The video had been played five times over the years in the privacy of his own apartment.
There were two surprises waiting for him there: first, being offered a senior citizen's discount; second, how much more impressive the orgy of killings at the finale was on a big screen. Life was getting to be one happy surprise after another.
Garth stayed in the car.
You are at Fiction 2, Chapters 11 & 12