Love Me or Kill Me (The Cable Denning Mystery Series Book 2)

by James P. Alsphert

  “Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Denning, but you speak most strangely and I must ask you to refrain from philosophical discussion if we are to associate.”

  I got a little miffed at the uppity character wrapped up tight in this good-looking gal. “Well, then, Miss Mapleton, perhaps it’s best that we don’t start now—associating, that is.”

  “May I ask why you say this?”

  “Because your sophisticated prattle, haughty manner and stiff-upper-lip approach may not be compatible with my slightly more—if I may use the term—lenient viewpoints of life in this swirling cosmos we dwell in, Miss Mapleton. Therefore, I suggest you seek your private dick elsewhere.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, I suggest you seek your private dick elsewhere…are you also hard of hearing—or did something I said offend you?”

  She seemed flustered. “I…I’m not sure. You mentioned a certain phrase that, uh, may have seemed offensive to me—”

  “—private dick, Miss Mapleton, short for private detective, not necessarily in capital letters. Are you one of those puritanical sweethearts brought out on Sunday mornings to parade after church so as to convince the local gentry into believing that if such a sophisticated young woman can attend the land of mythologies, then so can they?”

  She looked indignant and got up to go. I followed and opened the door for her. She looked at me, the blurry-eyed detective from too many gins and Lucky Strikes the night before, my hair slightly disheveled, wrinkled trousers a bit too baggy and my white shirt open at the neck with no tee shirt underneath a crumpled grayish suit jacket. Her eyes flashed, her lips rubbed against the lipstick, her solid-looking bust stuck out. “I’ve never been so insulted by a stranger in my life, Mr. Denning. But I do have one question. Why on earth would you badger me with such silly questions and comments—I’m twenty-five years old, have traveled the world and consider myself fairly well educated, socialized and civilized. And you, probably with hardly a grade school background, uncouth manners and a very cutting, judgmental manner—why would you say these things to me and lose a potential client… completely out of keeping with Mr. Lorena’s—” She stopped, slapped her hand to her mouth. Yep, she’d said too much. That slip of the tongue had cost her the whole ball game.

  “Well…it seems you answered your own questions, whoever you are. You alien things who try to impersonate humans have it all wrong. You need a lot of practice, lady-thing—or whatever you might call yourself. Ha! Ice-cold hands and bright red high heels—a dead giveaway, Miss Mapleton. And your language syntax isn’t quite down yet. A few hundred years and you might get it. I could feel it in my gut when you came in the room, real human women don’t quite behave like you just did. I ought to give you some lessons.”

  Her eyes were misting at not only having been discovered, I thought, but being humiliated by a mere human. “You’d do that for me? I mean, teach me directly—as one human to a not quite human presence?”

  “Well, I don’t run a school for alien education here, you know…but if I had the time—and since you guys are here in full force anyway, salt and peppered throughout our world societies—I thought I’d bone you up a bit, you know, catch you up to snuff.”

  I handed her a tissue from my desk and she wiped her eyes. “Thank you. I’m sorry…I—I didn’t mean to be rude to you, either. But you have to admit you are a bit hard on your new clients—”

  “—I don’t remember accepting you as a new client. Even rough guys like me that come out shooting first, have to have protocols to go by. Example… how dangerous is this possible case to my well-being?”

  She reached into her purse and took out a long, slim dark cigarette. I lit it for her. She coughed. “I’m—I’m not used to your tobacco products—or alcohol. It disturbs the chemical balances that are still transforming in my body.”

  I looked her over. “Well, I must say it’s a hell of a body, Miss Mapleton. Whoever put you together had some great concepts.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Denning. I think I perceive a slightly softer side to you, after all.”

  “Just a ruse, lady. I don’t quite trust aliens yet. At least not the violent kind who are big on violence and short on conscience—not even if they’re the Joe Lorena type. Do you know what I mean? I get the feeling your kind must think we humans are pushovers, pre-conditioned to dwell in a limited mental cubicle the size of my fountain pen. Well, guess what? Some of us can think standing up, feel with intuition the rotten breaks beings like you are bringing to our population, all in the name of do-gooders—‘Yeah, let’s help the poor dumb bastards out, feed their faces, wipe their butts but most of all, learn their ways so one day we can take over’. Isn’t that sort of how it goes, Miss Mapleton?” I had worn myself out already and I’d only just started! I left her standing there and went back to my desk, opened the upper right-hand drawer, got out a bottle of gin and poured myself a tall one. I looked up and she was still there, just staring at me, in retro-shock. “Would you like a drink Miss Mapleton—I mean, before you leave?”

  “No thank you, Mr. Denning. I told you, we can’t drink your—your alcoholic beverages. It makes us deathly ill. I’m surprised it doesn’t destroy you—with the quantities you must consume—”

  “—maybe we all destroy ourselves in different ways, lady. Can you stand there and say you have the perfect life with the perfect positive attitude without ever wanting to commit suicide because one day your brain suddenly starts malfunctioning and life adds up to a pile of crap?”

  She surprised me, walked back toward my desk, and stood opposite me, checking out my eyes. “You are truthful. I like that. Maybe I should hire you, after all. To answer your question, no, I have never felt what you describe. When we are shape-altered into human form, we are given serums on a regular basis to keep us subdued and—and…”

  “—compliant—I think that’s the word you’re searching for in that little alien dictionary you keep in that pretty little head of yours.” I took a deep breath. “So why did Joe Lorena send you?”

  “He didn’t send me. Rather he recommended you as someone who might help me find Goldilocks.”

  “Who?” I asked with an incredulous smile on my mug.

  “Goldilocks—a sister alien also in attractive human form.”

  “Oh, why didn’t you say so?” I said sarcastically. “I deal in lost sisters with the name of Goldilocks every day or so.” I took out a Lucky Strike and lit it. Then I sucked in a big drag, let it out slowly and sat down in my comfy desk chair. “Maybe we should start all over, Miss Mapleton. Won’t you sit down?”

  She did so. “Thank you. I really wanted to leave, but something told me I shouldn’t.”

  “It’s called intuition here on earth—what’s it called where you come from?”

  “Oh, I’m really from here, Mr. Denning. I was what you might say a test tube embryo. My male parent was a Sens Parafactor—like Mr. Lorena—and my mother a movie actress—all human.”

  Now I was putting it together. Lorena and his species were still working with the hybrid breeding process—the one that early on cost the life of his beloved Honey Combes’ biological mother. Joe Lorena had told me they’d perfected things in the ensuing years and since Honey was half and half, she was also one of those lovely creatures born sterile. She was actually thinking of trying to have our baby with her father’s alien expertise down in some secret lab somewhere. Only Honey got killed near the apex of her comet-like career by a savage lunatic, a guy by the name of Frank Laggore. Now the rest was history. But the past seemed to be coming back to haunt me as I sat across from the gorgeous auburn-haired beauty. “So you guys are still integrating with homo sapiens erectus, eh?”

  “Homo erectus—who?” she asked innocently. “Isn’t that part of the male sexual organ mechanism, I mean, a process when—when it fills with blood and swells, allowing—”

  “—yeah…that’s erection…but, well, we’re not talking about that, Miss Mapleton. Erectus in this cas
e refers to the evolving species that finally were able to stand up—erect, if you get my drift.”

  “Oh, I understand now. I am scientifically trained, synthesized molecular components—but I am not very socially skilled—despite what I said about traveling the world.” She looked down at the floor. “That wasn’t entirely accurate. Most of the traveling added up to little more than transferring to underground laboratories in other countries.”

  “I still think you’re a mighty attractive woman, at least in appearance, no matter who else you might be under that delectable skin of yours.”

  She smiled as if she’d heard it for the first time. “Do you really feel I’m attractive as a human female? Thank you, Mr. Denning. Mr. Lorena has told me I remind him of someone beautiful he once knew, but most of my own kind look at me in disgust and see me as a misfit—not really belonging to either species completely.”

  “Well, believe me, lady, I think you fit just fine and in all the right places—and bet you’d be a hot number under the sheets.”

  She wrinkled her brow, seemingly confused. “Under the sheets? I’m—I’m not sure what you saying…”

  “Eh….skip it…just a rather crude way of saying you’d be pretty wonderful to make love to—with that soft skin and pretty smile of yours, not to mention some of the unmentionables, like lovely, warm breasts—”

  She started unbuttoning her blouse. “—would you like to see my breasts? To see if they are mentionable, I mean, worthy of what you say would be acceptable—”

  “—no! Please, Miss Mapleton. I’m—I’m afraid it would distract us from the task at hand. But thank you anyhow.” Phew! I was beginning to feel my masculine temperature rise and I knew I had to get off the subject pronto. “So where do you currently work, if I may ask.”

  She buttoned her blouse back up. “In an underground laboratory…”

  “I see. Seems like a lot of things go on…underground. So why doesn’t a dish like you have a million guys panting for you at the door? If I were an available guy, I’d be doing my best to get your clothes off and invite you to hop in the sack.”

  Again she looked puzzled. “Hop in the sack?”

  “Yeah—look—I’m sorry. I’m not being very professional here. I think we should, uh, get back to business.” I ground out my cigarette in my overflowing ashtray and sat with my hands folded, looking at the strikingly good-looking young woman. “So, tell me. What's your story, Miss Mapleton? Everyone has a story, you know. That’s part of what I do. Listen to stories and get paid to tell entertaining yarns about the perversity of the universe—not just earth people anymore—but all of us, spread like peanut butter and jelly all over the bread of the cosmos.”

  “Each race of beings has its peculiarities, I suppose. But I think there are some essentially parallel qualities all creatures share, no matter where they come from.”

  “Your story, if you please, Miss Mapleton? I’m not an all-day lunch counter and I have a lady coming with a whole bunch of houseplants in a little while. I have to figure out where in the hell to put them.”

  “I like the way you talk, Mr. Denning. We could eschew the formality. Will you call me Sarah? I look at you and see someone who only seems not to care… but is caring. Is this not so?”

  “Just your story…please, if you don’t mind….you can call me Cable if you like—just not on Wednesdays.”

  “But today is Wednesday.”

  “There you have it, Sarah. Today it’s Mr. Denning.”

  She tittered lightly. “Yes, okay…I apologize. Now, what I came to you about—Frieda Goldilocks. The Three Terrible Bears have taken her on their picnic—and I’m very frightened.”

  Now I was beginning to think this dame had a major screw loose. “I have a feeling we aren’t talking about the same 1800’s British fairy tale we non-aliens grew up with.”

  “Well, partially, Cable—uh, Mr. Denning. The fairy tales are universal and thus serve as codes to describe both entities and events. For example, a picnic is where something is devoured—and my poor Goldilocks will be destroyed unless we can get to her first.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute here, Nellie. What do you mean we? I hope you don’t expect for a minute that I’d endanger both myself and my client…on some terrible, ‘devouring’ picnic, trying to save the life of one of your alien companions, do you? So let me get this straight. Goldilocks is a code name for an alien sister—real sister or the other kind?”

  “She is my own blood. My father and mother had just the two of us. I am eldest. Her birth name is also Judeo-Christian. Rebecca.”

  “Now I am aware of the original story, that before a pretty little thing named Goldilocks came into being, young comely babe and all—there was an old witch or crone as the invading visitor—and the three bears were indeed pretty mean dudes, none of the pap served up to children later, as Mama, Papa and Baby Bear whose porridge had been sampled—or devoured, such as in your case. How am I doing so far?”

  She smiled at me and unconsciously grabbed my hand across the desk. “Yes Mr. Denning! You’re so perceptive.” She quickly withdrew her hand. “Oh, excuse me. Americans would say I got—got—got—”

  “—you got carried away, Sarah. But why did your parents give you Judeo-Christian names? Seems to me they’d be more like Quarka & Masissia or something.”

  “The vibration of the name, its roots and history also help define the pathway of the intelligent being, sensitive enough to tune into the destiny impulse behind the name.”

  I marveled at my luck in this world. Why did all the whacko jobs come to me for help? “Now it’s getting pretty deep in here, kid. If I hear you right, the destiny is in the name…so if that logic follows, the three big bad bears are some pretty rough players in this story, huh?”

  “It’s a lot more than that.” She leaned on my desk and lowered her voice. “Sarah…my namesake, was Abraham’s half-sister, dangerously beautiful. When Abraham married his half-sister, he had to protect her constantly from other men. But it was not always possible. One day Abraham and Sarah were traveling in a caravan, with Sarah safely hidden inside of a jeweled chest. At the Egyptian border, the caravan was stopped by three foreboding men, as large as bears, who demanded that Abraham open the chest, thus revealing the radiant and lovely young Sarah. The evil bears lusted for Sarah, vied for her favor by wagering large amounts of money to have her for their own. But a light from the heavens struck them down and the caravan proceeded to Egypt. But the devil upon hearing of the event, vowed to avenge his cruel and lustful minions. At a very late age, perhaps in her eighties, Sarah conceived Isaac, a child who would be sacrificed to avenge the thwarted evil doers. Sarah lived to be 127 years old, and it is said her beauty shone brightly until the day she perished from the earth.”

  I was a sucker for a good story and Sarah’s was as good as any I’d heard in quite a while. “So…now we’ve got the three bears reincarnated in the here and now, but they’re not going for you—but rather Rebecca? Something doesn’t make sense here…care to explain?”

  She leaned back and took a deep breath, a youthful excitement upon her face. “The name Rebecca means to tie or bind and Rebecca was born very psychic, like a clairvoyant or prophetess. But that is a difficult role, for a prophet is never at peace, but riles herself as well as the populace into often disturbing action. At fourteen, Rebecca was married to Isaac and later sacrificed him when a cloud hovered over her tent and said she must be free. But it was difficult for her, because she was expecting twins when the vision above her tent appeared. During a very hard child birthing, a dark and mysterious man came to her, calling himself Midrash. This creature said he was the devil and was giving the new-born twins, Sarah and Rebecca, to his dark angel brother, Gor. These were the twins the young mother gave birth to, although during their mortal existence, they went under other names in order to escape capture by Midrash”.

  “Did ol’ Midrash ever catch up with the girls?”

  “No, they were able to escape b
y shape-changing into twin brothers. And history only records that Rebecca gave birth to Jacob and Esau. Over many millennia, the twins reincarnated several times. But when my sister and I were given the original names of Sarah and Rebecca, Midrash discovered us and has pursued us ever since. Now, he’s so very close…I can feel it….” She said that trembling a little.

  It was so hard to tell in this frickin’ universe who was on the level and who wasn’t. “So, if the devil…in the form of Midrash…failed, what happened next?”

  “Before Rebecca died at the age of 120, Satan promised to give Gor Rebecca and her twin sister in a subsequent life.” She stopped and looked intensely into my eyes. “That life…is now, Mr. Denning.”

  “And the three bears are the hired henchmen to get you and your sister to this Gor character?”

  “Yes.” She paused. “Do you have a restroom?”

  “Well, it’s in pretty bad shape, but you’re welcome to use it—through that door, past my lumpy unmade bed—and there it is.”

  She excused herself. Suddenly it was very quiet in the room, but in my head I could hear the music coming out of the Bella Notte and Honey was singing ‘What’ll I Do?’ and my head was clanging out that certain insanity when a man who is perfectly happy finds himself attracted to another babe. Honey’s song was right on: what’ll I do with this dish? What’ll I do when she walks out of my office and I’m once again alone with just my thoughts? And maybe like the words to the song, when I’m alone with those dreams of you that won’t come true—what’ll I do? Ha! Do a Cable Denning deep breath and put one foot in front of the other and keep walking straight ahead. No detours. Yeah…well…I knew when the babe walked back out of the powder room I’d be willing to go to bat for her and her sister. That was the way I was made.

  Sarah Mapleton came back into the office and sat once more. “I felt a bit hot. Is it warm in here—or is it me?”

  I looked at her. “Alien hot flashes,” I laughed. “You know, you gotta watch that. It’ll make you old before your time.” I glanced at her. Something had changed. Then I noticed she had taken off her brassiere while she was in the bathroom and her nipples were now protruding through that thin dark blouse of hers. “Getting back to your Biblical riddle—first…supposing I do work for you—do you have any money or do I work for trade? And second….do you know where to begin—in other words, what clues do we have to go on?”