by Len Norman
Reg asked, “Is the trouble gone? Is it one of those two?”
The clerk was young and she frightened easily. “He went outside; those two over by the beer cooler are okay.”
Reg asked, “What happened?”
The young clerk was chewing gum nervously and kept looking at the front door. “He was only inside a minute or so but he gave me the creeps, he was big and wild looking. I think the thought of his eyes will give me nightmares, maybe several.”
“The dispatcher told me he was scaring customers. Were those two idjits in the store when the man was inside? Did he scare them?” Reg was pointing his thumb in the area of the two amateur thieves.
“Yes, there were a few others but they bolted. The man said something I couldn’t hear and four or five people ran like hell.” Those two stayed, they shop kind of funny, and they keep looking at me. Maybe I should know them?”
Reg grunted and walked up to the only two customers in the place, a young man and his girlfriend. They were dressed like hippies and Reg knew what that meant—they probably smoked dope and took pills. Worst of all, their kind questioned authority.
As he approached them he looked at their hands. Sometimes hippies had weapons, just like all of the other assholes might. “Did you two see anything strange tonight other than each other?” Reg asked.
The male half-replied, “Well, yes we did, officer. A man came in here a little while ago and he appeared to have some mental health issues.”
“Is that so? Looks to me like you might be dope-smoking hippies, anarchist’s maybe. You’re wearing an army trench coat. Where’d you serve?”
“I’m a conscientious objector. This coat was purchased by me at a Goodwill store. We are merely picking up a few snacks for the bus ride home.”
“Empty your pockets shitheads, both of you. Let me see what you managed to swipe before I arrived.”
“Well, I’ll tell you officer, you have no legal right to ask us to do that. We will, however, as we are both upstanding citizens. Perhaps you could investigate the complaint that brought you here when you are finished with us?”
Reg grinned at them and noticed the girl was a little stoned. A closer glance revealed she was pregnant. They both smelled and Reg thought maybe they were travelers and not the kind he wanted in Riverside. A quick glance at their belongings only revealed the usual things with the exception of a roach clip.
“You might not have store merchandise concealed on your person but this is a roach clip. You know what that means?”
“That we didn’t steal?”
“No dumbass. It means you’re in possession of drug paraphernalia. I’m highly trained and very observant; I think you two are up to no good. The good news is I’m here on another matter. You should get your thieving grubby mitts out of here and then I want the both of you out of town sooner than later.”
“Gladly officer. You may want to check out the original complaint. I suspect he hasn’t gone too far.”
Reg decided to go to the heavily wooded area behind the store that was adjacent to the river to see if the night stalker was still around. After five minutes or so he turned around to go back to his patrol car. He heard a noise and before he could even process that sound, he was facing a brutish-looking man. The man was clearly disturbed and he was holding a crossbow that was ready to go and pointed directly at Reg.
“I’ll give you four bucks for that…I don’t get paid until next week. Four bucks is all I have!”
The wild man lowered the crossbow a little and it was now pointed at Reg’s lower region. The crazy-ass hunter said, “Really?”
“Of course. You look like someone that could use four bucks. Heck, we could probably both use four bucks, huh?” Reg recognized the man. It was Neal Grote and Reg realized the peril he was in. Neal was considered by everyone to be as mad as a March hare. His reputation went far and wide.
Neal looked down at his crossbow like he had won the lottery. He lowered it more and handed it to Reg. Once the crossbow was safely in his possession, Reg reached in his wallet and pulled out the last four singles, he was literally broke but happily alive. He owned a crossbow and carried it back to his car as Neal walked away into the darkness.
Reg went back to the store and told the clerk that the man checked out fine and wouldn’t be back to bother her again. He drove slowly to the police station and wanted to make sure he’d be able to sign out with fifteen minutes of overtime; Reg calculated that would cover his four-dollar purchase.
Six months later the Franklin River was covered in a thin layer of ice and the frigid temperature promised plenty more, which would be good news for ice fishermen in the days to come. It was three o’clock in the morning and Neal Grote was all alone. He walked along the sidewalk that was adjacent to the two-lane bridge. When he reached the center of the bridge he stopped and looked at the frozen river and then the lights of downtown Riverside. He thought it would be wonderful to be able to fly above the city lights as free as a bird.
It suddenly occurred to Neal that he really could fly and he was on the other side of the railing. He jumped and immediately began flapping his arms as if in flight. For a brief moment in time he believed he was actually flying, and then the ice and freezing water had its way with Neal. There were no witnesses to his final act of defiance and the Franklin River would never kiss and tell.
Look What I Found in the Janitor’s Closet
1958
Harley was growing in so many ways. He was already a darn good baseball player and his father was excited about the possibility of him making a Little League team. Harley had no real love for the game itself. Rather, it allowed him to vent. When batting he’d attack every pitch thrown at him with a vengeance. Harley was not hitting a baseball. In his brilliantly sick mind he was hitting Mommy and Clifford, and all of those that he would one day deal cards to as only Harley could.
It was 1958 and the recession was finally starting to impact Americans. Over five million people were unemployed in the United States. Richard and other rich bankers continued to thrive. The poor continued to suffer and Richard could’ve cared less. Elvis Presley was inducted into the Army and President Eisenhower ordered troops into Lebanon at the request of President Chamoun, who feared overthrow and plenty more. Harley followed all of the current events very closely because he thought they would provide clues to be used later. When Wham-O introduced the Hula Hoop and the Bridge on the River Kwai hit the theatres, Harley was plotting chaos.
He did sit up and take notice when Fidel Castro took control of things and President Batista boogied right the piss out of Cuba and onward to the Dominican Republic. Harley was enthusiastic when it came to dictators and their evil ways; he believed they were kindred spirits and he’d try to learn from them. Another occurrence peaked Harley’s interest. The first domestic passenger jet aircraft flew from New York City to Miami. There were 101 passengers on the flight. Harley was intrigued by the possibility of a REAL person, one of the fifty-two that could harm him, being on such a mode of transportation. He would make sure the proper playing card would be on the jet when the midair explosion would take place. There were so many possibilities, and he delighted in all of them.
The changes in Harley were even more drastic. His intellect continued to grow and his invention knew no bounds. He was constantly working on a foolproof plan to dispose of dear old dad. Harley couldn’t wait to get his hands on the family fortune; with wealth he would one day have independence. Once he had freedom to go as he pleased he would deal the rest of the cards. First things first: Richard was next.
Harley had been watching his father for signs of weakness and ways to kill him. It was high time to deal that Four of Clubs. There were days when Harley felt like simply walking up to his father and shooting him or stabbing him or doing something to him.
It was unusually warm for October and the Yankees were right back in the World Series. Richard took Harley to see game five of the series and the Yankees prevailed, beating the Mi
lwaukee Braves 7-0 in front of sixty-five thousand fans. The Yankees would clinch the series three days later in Milwaukee and by then, Richard would already assume room temperature.
They sat in the usual box seats that went hand-in-hand with the wealth and standing that belonged to Richard, but would soon become Harley’s. The game was over before they knew it, and they took the cab home to their New York City apartment. Richard took the next day off from work, opting to stay home and relax; he might play a game of catch with Harley in the nearby park. Richard rarely thought of Meredith and Clifford. He was looking forward to years of fun with Harley. Who knew? Maybe one day Harley would be a famous baseball player and wear the pinstripe uniform.
******
Harley had finally dealt Richard’s special card. It was three o’clock and Richard had been reading a book with a drink by his side. He got up and went into the kitchen to get a snack. While he was gone Harley picked up his drink and replaced the coaster with the Four of Clubs playing card. Then he laced Richard’s bourbon with the deadly cyanide he’d found while snooping in the janitor’s closet. The liquid cyanide was an effective rodenticide, as well as tasteless and odorless, and was the perfect thing to ward off unwanted rats. Harley reckoned the same thing could be used on a really big rat.
Richard returned and began to read. As he finished his drink he complained of feeling out of sorts. He was dead by four o’clock. Harley stuck a mirror under his father’s nose and was delighted at the result. “Looks like we just might skip Thanksgiving dinner this year, huh? I always hated your guts and the Four of Clubs has been a long time coming. Are you with Mommy and Clifford? Or is there just a big fat nothing out there?”
Harley took the glass into the kitchen and rinsed it out before placing it back on the Four of Clubs. He poured another finger of bourbon in the glass just to make it look good. Harley went back to his bedroom and read for a while. The Five of Clubs was taken out of the deck and used as a bookmark. He looked at the card and was hopeful he’d be able to use it soon. The card excited him in ways even he didn’t understand.
As soon as Abigail arrived to prepare dinner she found Richard and immediately called an ambulance, but it was too late. Harley was beyond consoling; his father was dead. The funeral was held on October 13, 1958. Harley cried the entire time. He sat next to his only relatives, Aunt Caroline and Uncle Simon.
The attorneys took what they had coming and the rest was placed in a trust fund for Harley. Caroline would have custody of him and he’d never want for anything. Harley was worth millions and the money would be his when he turned twenty-one. He’d have plenty of money until then, as determined by terms of the trust and his aunt.
Abigail was mentioned in the will. She inherited $50,000 and never looked back. She always thought something was different about the Ames family and for her part, she wouldn’t miss Harley one bit.
Harley moved to Asheville, North Carolina, with his Aunt Caroline and Uncle Simon. Simon had no desire to raise a child, and he was more than happy to send Harley off to Winston Academy, an all-boys prestigious school located a hundred miles from Asheville.
They initially planned to travel with Harley and visit faraway places on his trust fund money. They thought themselves clever while Harley never even thought of them. It was 1959 and in Harley’s opinion he was already on his own. He wanted to keep on the good side of his aunt so he’d be able to operate in ways she’d never fathom.
He continued to develop and grow physically. He really did have a natural athletic ability for sports and was able to fine tune his intellectual aptitude so that he appeared only above average; his teachers thought he actually studied and worked for his grades. Harley wasn’t popular, but he did have a few friends for appearances. There was one student who gave him cause for great concern. Harley believed that student was one of the REAL people that would harm him.
Was it time for another card so soon? He thought it just might be, and he would soon find a way to take care of Aaron Thomas.
Harley and Aaron were in many of the same classes together and they lived in the same dormitory. The academy catered to the filthy rich; the five dorms on campus looked rather elegant from the outside as they were nestled in wood-like settings. A stream ran behind the dormitories and there was plenty of trout to be caught for those who liked to fish. The landscaping and stylish brick buildings lent an air of superiority that all of the students shared. Harley began to watch Aaron closely. For his part, Aaron never had a chance.
Farts in the Cemetery
1980
Frank was cooped up with Ivan, and the big guy was sitting behind the wheel snoring. He had his hat on as always and he farted occasionally in his sleep. Frank rolled down the window to air things out a bit. There were a couple of comic books on Ivan’s lap, the latest Godzilla issues with the illustrations he enjoyed; he had even asked Frank for help with a couple of words and Frank was very patient with him. Frank was always amazed that words like banished and detonation would confuse Ivan. Frank would good-naturedly explain the meaning of such words, and in many cases help Ivan learn how to pronounce some of them.
Ivan didn’t really want to learn new words but he was eager when it came to figuring out everything that went on with his spiritual mentor, Godzilla.
Frank was wide awake and reading book nine of Will and Ariel Durant’s eleven-volume Story of Civilization; he thought The Age of Voltaire was the best one yet. Because it was a hardcover edition, he was forced to carry it around in a tote bag. He wasn’t ashamed of the things he read, rather, he simply preferred to not draw attention to his literary preferences. Because it wasn’t a comic book, Ivan could’ve cared less.
Frank read another fifty pages and glanced across the Chevy bench seat where Ivan slept. There was drool running down Ivan’s chin, and he was twitching and soon began talking in his sleep. Most of the words in Ivan’s lexicon were not easily understood, but Frank did catch phrases like “stomp them dead” and “it will hurt them.” Frank wondered what life was like for Ivan. He wondered if he ever wished he was normal. Did he think about life’s meaning or where he was headed? Probably not. He was pretty sure Ivan was a what-you-see-is-what-you-get guy.
It was a quiet night, unusually quiet for a warm spring evening. They were parked in one of the cemeteries, out of the public eye and safely concealed in their squad car. Ivan pulled over and parked in Section Seven, his favorite spot. Months earlier, Frank actually got out of the car when Ivan took them to his usual Section Seven hangout. Ivan was sleeping and farting and Frank needed a breath of air. He shined his flashlight on tombstones and read the names. Frank wondered about the people that resided below for all eternity and pondered what their lives were like. Frank was a deep thinker.
He walked all through Section Seven looking for hints as to why Ivan loved that particular place so much; he found no suggestions as he read all of the names and dates of births and deaths. Tonight, Frank wondered if Ivan was still dreaming. He suspected that when his dreams began to accelerate, so did his lethal farts.
Frank was bored, but all of that soon ended when they were given a call. The dispatcher announced there was trouble at one of the local taverns. People were fighting and damaging property and the owner wanted them out. This was not unusual for any city or any bar; it was universal—the bar owners were all the same, all of them had one thing in common. They loved the money and the drinks were freely poured. When the customers were too drunk to drink anymore or refused to leave when asked, or even worse—picked fights with others who were still spending money—the police were called.
Riverside was no different, but the method in which some of Riverside’s finest handled such calls differed greatly from normal policing methods. Frank turned the map light on to log the call on his clipboard and Ivan barely stirred. Frank nudged Ivan in the ribs, “We have a call. There’s a fight at the Gone to Hell Bar, something about damage.”
Ivan sat up and put the car in drive. It was always fun to wa
tch guys like Ivan. Guys that could go from deep sleep to something like they had never pulled over in the first place. Frank handed Ivan a napkin and told him to wipe off the drool, people would expect professionalism.
Ivan laughed, “Who pissed in your Wheaties? Didn’t you get to nap?”
“I would have, but you were snoring too fucking loud. I was gonna start the car up and run the heater; I was getting cold. Instead I lit a few of your farts and warmed up right away.”
“You sure are funny, Frank, you make me laugh. I like working with you!”
Frank rolled his eyes. “We should probably step it up, huh? The fight? Gone to Hell Bar? Remember? Earth to Ivan?”
Ivan kicked it in the ass and they were doing eighty before they arrived a minute or so later. Frank keyed his radio up and yelled, “We got us a live one. Send us a little more help?” They got out of the car and saw three separate fights in the parking lot going on at once. Things were already winding down a bit.
“Bunch of pussies,” Ivan roared. “They’re all punched out. We should probably scrape the shit off the parking lot and see what’s happening inside!”
Before the tough guys knew it, Ivan was kicking a few in the ribs and the ones able to run away took advantage of their luck. Frank kicked one of them in the ass, and when the guy rolled over Frank was astonished to see it was a Riverside City Commissioner.
“Well, what the fuck do you make of this guy, huh, Ivan? Maybe we should stick a bone in his ass and let the dogs drag him away.”
“Looks to me like he’s going to have some explaining to do after he gets out of jail. Handcuff him; this is the same commissioner that doesn’t think we earn our money. Let’s show him how much work it is to do all of the arrest reports and tell the judge whatever he needs to hear. I bet this guy ends up wishing he never drank.”
