Double Dimple

by N. C. Lewis

  She replied in a sullen voice, "Nothing exciting. Nancy Fisher, owner of Bee Mound Drilling, has donated ten thousand dollars to the animal shelter. I'm down to do a joint interview with her and Augustine Granger later this week. Doubt if it will make it to the front page though. Other than that, it's the fish fry, popcorn fundraising, and the new singles club at Saint Francis."

  We fell into a glum silence.

  Chapter 16

  "Well hello, gorgeous!"

  Neither of us looked up.

  "What's wrong with you gals?" said Roger taking a seat and placing a brown leather bag on his lap.

  Madame Bleu appeared—her brow crumpled, lips twisted into a snarl. "Le propriétaire du journal—"

  "What?" interrupted Roger, "I don't speak French."

  Madame Bleu paused. "Pardon! The owner of the newspaper treats Millie like an hourly paid wordsmith."

  Roger looked confused. "A wordsmith? But that's what reporters are, aren't they?"

  "Non, Millie is un artiste, a creative savant who paints with words. It is impossible to produce art if the imaginative mind's shackled to fish fries and popcorn fundraisers."

  Roger shot me a quick glance.

  I shrugged.

  Professor Purple appeared. "Millie's big story has fallen through. Now she must redouble her efforts to cover the upcoming fish fry, popcorn fundraiser, and donation to the animal shelter."

  Roger tipped back his head and laughed. "Oh, I see."

  Millie scowled.

  "Millie where's your sense of humor?" chuckled Roger. "I've got the biggest story in Medlin Creek this year, and I want you to cover it."

  Millie sat bolt upright, her eyes dancing in eager anticipation. "What story?"

  Roger raised his hand to his mouth as if holding a microphone. In a news announcer voice, he said," Medlin Creek's sensational, inspirational, motivational marvel, Roger Romantic, will deliver his first speech at the Medlin Creek Community Center."

  Millie's shoulders slumped.

  "That's phenomenal," I said, trying to keep the mood upbeat.

  Roger beamed. "I'm booked for my first paid motivational presentation. I'll soon gain my COSI."

  "Wonderful," I said, hoping that in his excitement he would forget I had agreed to attend. "I won't ask how much you are going to get, but who is the sponsoring organization?"

  He puffed out his chest. "The Havis County Senior Citizens Association. This is the first of many. It's tomorrow, twelve-fifteen p.m. at the Medlin Creek Community Center. You'll be attending, won't you, Ollie?"

  From memory, around noon I was free. My mouth relayed this information before my mind could think up an excuse. "Yes, of course, I'll be there to support you, Roger."

  Roger's eyes glazed. "Imagine it! You will be a personal witness to the presentational snowball that will start the avalanche. Ollie, you're a faithful friend."

  Roger turned to Millie. "I want you to record for posterity, with pen and paper, the very first days of the Roger Romantic Inspired by the Hills phenomenon. It's the start of a new season in my life. I'm stepping into the future, and it feels good."

  "I don't know," Millie answered in a disillusioned voice. "There's the rotary club fish fry to cover."

  "Oh Millie, it's gonna be front page news in newspapers across the Hill Country. The whole town is turning out. And I found it."

  "Found what?" Millie asked, her eyes once again glimmering with interest.

  Roger's eyes darted around the café, and he lowered his voice to a whisper. "I've found my motivational gimmick. At the end of my presentation…" He paused for dramatic effect. "… As the audience waves flags, I climb on top of a table and shoot fire from my mouth while robot dancing. It will be amazing, wonderful, astounding."

  Roger turned. "Ollie, can you see it?"

  I wasn't sure but nodded.

  The puppets disappeared into Millie's handbag and she leaned back in her chair, arms folded. "I'll see what the newspaper owner says," she said, her eyes once again disillusioned.

  Roger didn't notice and reached into the brown leather bag to pull out a flyer. A beautiful landscape painting of the Hill Country served as the backdrop. Superimposed, an image of a youthful Roger with bulging biceps on top of a table. In his hand, he held an oversized megaphone. Across the top in bold, black letters were the words "Roger Romantic's Inspired by the Hills Motivational Tour."

  Roger handed a flyer to each of us. "Amazing what you can do with Photoshop. I'm posting these babies all over town. The community center is gonna be standing room only."

  He stood up and gave a little wave. "See you at the dojo later."

  On the tips of his toes he strode to the bulletin board by the counter. His back, ramrod straight, head tilted with pride, he pinned a flyer to the board.

  The barista scurried over to read the flyer. "Looks remarkable, wish I could go," he said as Roger marched out of the café.

  Chapter 17

  The rest of the day passed by in a blur. I spent the afternoon hunched over my desk grading student assignments, preparing lecture notes for an upcoming class, and organizing my desk planner.

  At six p.m. the windup clock, high on the living room mantel, chimed. The gentle tinkle is my reminder to move. Desk work is sedentary, and without a prompt, my hunched posture causes back and joint pain, a hazard of the job faced by everyone in my line of work. I got up and stretched. This evening I went through a longer routine, contented I'd finished my work.

  After one final downward-facing dog, I collapsed into dead man's pose. With eyes closed, mind tranquil, I focused on the tick-tock of the clock. An image of John popped into my mind. His face, as stern as a general's, peered downward toward his hands. I followed his gaze. He held an open book, but I couldn't read the text.

  Bodie barked.

  Startled, I jumped up, hurried to the kitchen and checked that he had both food and water then glanced at the time—six thirty-five! I grabbed my martial arts bag and headed along the dirt path through the little iron gate to my Tahoe.

  As I drove to the dojo, my mind focused on Barbara Nadel, a woman I'd never met nor heard of until yesterday. Even during my lowest days after John's death, when I found it difficult to function, I clung on to life. It was hard for me to understand why someone would take their own.

  My thoughts flashed back to the storage unit. I replayed the scene in my mind: Igor shoving the door open, Augustine's scream, the corpse sprawled out on the floor. Something didn't feel right, but I didn't know why.

  I pulled into the dojo parking lot. A large moon low in the sky, shone bright, and the sun, still visible in the west, radiated red plumes which rippled and shimmered off the clouds. It was one of those summer evenings when life's goodness lifted the heart, and even the desolate could perceive a future and sense hope.

  Members were already entering the dojo as I scurried across the parking lot. It was a low-rise concrete and steel structure, in between a disused warehouse and a twenty-four-hour pizza parlor known as Don Andrews. I am a regular at the pizza parlor.

  Above the front door in big, bright letters were the words: Medlin Creek Martial Arts Academy. All Welcome. The children's class had just finished. A gaggle of youngsters dressed in karate uniforms exited through the door. The older children laughed and jostled each other. Parents out front hurried the children along, carrying small, black bags which held practice martial arts weapons.

  Inside, the dojo was cool and bright. The whoosh of fans circulated air around a large, rectangular room. A black mat covered the gym floor, padded with a thick, soft material designed to absorb the impact of judo-style throws. Off to the side were changing rooms and offices.

  Kidd Cole, the assistant instructor, swept the mat. He glanced up as I entered the dojo.

  "Hi Ollie, I heard about your discovery in the warehouse district. I've always wondered what people store in those units, but dead bodies!"

  "Might be more to it than meets the eye," I replied.

&nb
sp; Kidd leaned on the broom. "Really, do you think there is more to it than suicide?"

  "I'm not sure, such a strange location. I guess we'll have to wait and see what the medical examiner's report says."

  "Are you talking about the warehouse district body?" asked Hugh joining the conversation. He was a longtime member of the dojo and worked as a respiratory therapist at the Medlin Creek County Hospital. "A while ago I met Barbara, sad how her life ended."

  That got my interest. "What was she like?"

  Hugh's dark owl-like eyes looked off into the distance. "That's a difficult one. If I remember correctly she came into the County Hospital with a back injury. Can't recall what she looked like, but I do remember she was kinda unusual."

  "What do you mean?" asked Kidd.

  Hugh ran a hand through his frizzy Afro. "Don't see many women in the construction industry around these parts."

  "Well, I know a few," said Kidd. "It is not that unusual."

  Hugh rubbed his chin. "My niece, Danielle, works for a home builder over in Austin. But what I mean is that I don't know any women builders who write novels."

  Kidd fiddled with the broom. "Barbara Nadel wrote a book?"

  Hugh flashed a smile. "Yep. A murder mystery. That's why I remember her, because I'm an avid reader of mysteries. Barbara gave me a copy, damn good story! Might have written a second, if she did I've not read it."

  "Class starts in five minutes," a voice boomed from across the mat. It belonged to Ma Jenkins, the owner of the academy. "Dixon Quan is taking the class tonight. He's a Muay Thai fighter from Austin. Anyone late onto the mat will have a hundred push-ups."

  We hurried away to change into our martial arts uniforms.

  In the women's changing room there was a last-minute scramble to get ready. It seemed everyone had arrived simultaneously. There probably isn't enough time, I thought, maybe I should skip class tonight and just watch. But somehow, quickly, I changed.

  Chapter 18

  A large gong sounded, summoning us from the changing rooms to the main dojo. Students streamed onto the mat and formed lines. Advanced students at the front, beginners at the back. I stood in the last line, anxious about whether I would make it through the strenuous physical exercise ahead.

  "Let's get our bodies warmed up," said Kidd. "Tonight, we'll begin with a jog. Roger, how many laps of the dojo?"

  Roger Romantic, a longtime member, stood in the front row. "Seventy-five. Got to get in shape for my motivational presentation at the community center. I hope y'all are coming."

  Inwardly I groaned.

  Off we set, at a steady pace around the dojo. As we completed each lap, Kidd called out the number. I've never been much of a runner and always came in last, even at school. At the dojo, it was no different.

  Finally, gasping for breath, lap seventy-five was in my rearview mirror. A round of applause went up from the students as I collapsed to the mat.

  "Okay Ollie, on your feet," said Kidd. "Hugh, can you lead the stretches?"

  Hugh strolled to the front, bowed, and Kidd left the mat. "Tonight, we'll run through a few of the physical therapy stretches I'm using to help with my lower back pain."

  After fifteen minutes of Hugh's routine, my back, arms and legs relaxed. I made a mental note to add some of the stretches to my own home routine.

  The gong sounded and again we lined up in neat rows. Dixon Quan, a stick-thin man wearing shorts and a T-shirt, strolled onto the mat. He was around five-five and less than a hundred and fifty pounds, with close-cropped hair and eyes like a sniper scope.

  "Most people think of Muay Thai, as kicking and punching." He clenched his fists into tight balls and smiled a toothless smile. "But Muay fighters also use their elbows and knees. This evening we are going to drill basic elbow strikes."

  Dixon motioned Kidd who strode onto the mat carrying a large strike shield. It was leather, padded with an absorbent, sponge-like material, and about the size of a shield carried by a Roman soldier.

  "There are many types of elbow strikes. Tonight, we'll practice the horizontal elbow strike. I'll demonstrate the right side first."

  Dixon squared up in front of Kidd who held out the shield to one side. Dixon moved into the strike. His left hand covered his face, right side pivoted as his right elbow swung like a fist into the shield. Kidd stumbled backward, slipped, and crumpled to the mat.

  Dixon, hands on hips, laughed. "Ladies and gentlemen, you don't want to get hit by an elbow strike cos it's bad, very bad."

  He stooped down to help Kidd onto his feet. "Let me show you the left side horizontal elbow strike." Dixon paused so Kidd could get into position.

  When Kidd was ready, Dixon said, "It is very important to practice on both sides. I tell my students in Austin that they are only as strong as their weak side."

  Again, he showed the technique. This time, his left elbow flew forward as fast as a punch, smashing into the shield. The force knocked Kidd backward although he remained on his feet.

  Dixon showed the technique again, and both the right and left side. Then he broke the movements down into a step-by-step guide. At last, he said, "Okay ladies and gentlemen, it's your turn. Partner up."

  We broke up into groups of two or three with one student holding a shield while the other two practiced on both sides.

  Dixon strode around the mat watching and offering technical tips and advice.

  "Now it's your turn, Ollie," said Julia Simmons a longtime member of the dojo and student counselor for the Medlin Creek Independent School District. "Try your right side first."

  I raised my left hand, so it covered my face. A slight pivot on my right side and my right elbow flew forward toward the padded shield.

  It missed!

  The motion of my body caused me to step forward, my legs buckled, and I fell to the mat.

  Dixon let out a chuckle. "That used to happen to me all the time. Keep your right leg stationary, don't step forward."

  I tried again, conscious of my right leg. Again, my elbow flew out, this time connecting fully with the target. It sunk deep into the shield knocking Julia back several paces.

  "Yes, you've got it!" cried Dixon with delight.

  Several times I changed partners, getting a little better with every attempt. Before too long the movement seemed natural, and I was able to strike hard with both left and right sides.

  The end of class gong sounded.

  We lined up in neat rows and bowed. Another class at the Medlin Creek Martial Arts Academy was over.

  "I did it! I made it through class," I muttered as I made my way back toward the women's changing room. "Time for a slice or two of pizza."

  Chapter 19

  The bright lights of Don Andrews, a twenty-four-hour pizza parlor famous in the Hill Country for its New York style pizza, poured out onto the sidewalk. The savory smell of yeast, cheese, onions, peppers, and tomatoes caused my stomach to rumble as my mouth salivated.

  Inside, a group of old-timers played dominoes on the long bench at the far side of the restaurant. A single female assistant, wearing a low-cut blouse with a frilly neckline, served a small line of customers. She was a teenager, or early twenties at most, with platinum-blond hair and a face too mature for her age. Two young men worked the preparation stations, grunting out questions and responses, moving with speed through their tasks. Several patrons sat on plastic chairs devouring their meals, and Don Andrews stood by the industrial pizza oven, one eye on the cash register, the other on the seated area.

  A young couple, most likely tourists, peered at the menu board. Tonight's offerings weren't extensive: Hill Country Special, Pepperoni or Hawaiian.

  "What ya want?" The assistant asked the couple. Her deadpan voice, dull eyes, and bleached hair gave her the aura of a person who’d worked dead-end jobs for decades.

  The couple conversed for several moments. "Two slices of your Hill Country Special," said the man.

  "Want fries and soda with that?"

  "Yes, Sprite and
diet cola."

  The assistant picked out two slices from the display cabinet. "Here!" she said, handing over the plates. "Soda machine is at the back."

  The assistant turned and smiled in that sullen teenager way. "Hi, Ollie, what ya want?"

  I surveyed the menu board but could not decide.

  "Slice of each," I replied. After all, it had been a tough class.

  "A fresh pie just went in. Take a seat, and I'll bring it over."

  At the back of the restaurant, I noticed a vacant booth. It was in a quiet corner, away from the dominoes game and the tables where most patrons ate. I slipped into the booth seat, relaxing into its soft leather upholstery.

  Suddenly, a loud cheer went up from the dominoes players. A round-faced man with a bushy, gray beard, a squashed nose, and tiny ears jumped up.

  "Not again!" he cried, his shoulders slumped. "Played at this table for fifteen years, only won once. When is lady luck going to strike again?"

  A wrinkly faced old man with stout eyes shook his head slowly. "Mr. Bubble, I remember your win. Don't think lady luck will strike you again in my lifetime."

  Several players chuckled, slapping the old man on the back and shaking his hand. Mr. Bubble scowled. Then seeing the humor, burst out laughing. "Guess I've got a very long losing streak ahead of me then," he grinned wiping a tear from his eye.

  "New game," cried a sharp-faced man sitting at the head of the dominoes table.

  "New game," came the cry back.

  The pizza parlor settled down as another game got underway.

  The assistant placed a plate of steaming hot pizza on my table.

  "Enjoy," she said, throwing the words over her shoulder as she strode back to the counter.

  I leaned back in my seat, eyes half closed, nibbled a slice of Hill Country Special, and let out a contented sigh.

  The low buzz of the restaurant door seemed far away as I took another bite.

  "I'm in a hurry, girl!" a voice snapped. Recognition jolted my eyes open. At the front, a short, little man, almost a dwarf, wearing tan boots with four-inch heels, scowled at the assistant.