by Peter Ponzo
I couldn't believe that everybody knew that story. Was I into the wine and I told everybody?
"Yeah, the Mafia guy," Miller says.
They was silence about the fire.
"Mafia guy?" I says. "Did you know him?"
"Of course not," Miller says. "It was in all the papers. He was one rich sonofabitch gangster."
More silence. I reckon everybody was thinkin what I was thinkin. Was the Mafia lookin for me?
"We gotta see what's in the safety box," Clem says. "If that guy was rich. Who knows...?"
"Mebbe they's a jillion bucks there," Molly says.
"How're we gonna find out ..."
"The Mafia guy lived in town, West End," Miller says. "Beyond the tracks. Big house, big fence."
"Probly means he got his bank there and his safety box," Bones says.
"Then go and get the money!" Molly says.
"Not dressed like that," Dotty says. "You look like a bum. They kick you outta the bank."
More silence.
"Okay," Miller says. "We gotta dress up Mr. Greg so he looks nice and neat. Anybody got some nice clothes?"
More silence, then Molly says, "I got a suit from my dear departed. It'd look good on Greg. I'll get it." Then she leaves and we wait, in silence. When she gets back she's got a blue suit with pants and everything, even a tie.
Everybody is waiting fer me to put it on.
"I gotta get undressed to put it on," I says. "Everybody look away."
Everybody looks in the other direction and I pull off my old clothes and slip into the neat suit. I see that Molly is lookin, but that's okay. It's her suit.
"Okay, look now," I says, and everybody looks at me and somebody whistles. It's Molly again.
"That should do it," Miller says.
Chapter Two
Next day we is all walkin acrosst town to West End where all the rich bitches live. Molly's got the mutt on a leash and he's pissing on every post. When we get to the fancy houses, Clem says, "So where's the bank?"
"There's a bank at the end of the street," Miller says. How's he know so much 'bout this neighbourhood?
We all walk down the street and sure enough, there a huge bloody bank: First Dominion Bank. We stand out front and I'm shaking like a leaf.
"Okay," Miller says. 'Greg, you walk in tall and proud, like a rich bitch. Flash your key to the safety deposit box and say you want to get something. Some bank clerk will lead you to a back room, point to your box and leave you alone."
Molly says, "Go get em, Greg."
So I walks in the bank and struts my stuff. I know I'm lookin good with my blue suit and all. I wave the key and some guy says, "Right this way, sir."
He called me 'sir'. We go to some back room and he leaves me there. He don't point out the box, but I find number 601 near the end. The walls is covered in them boxes. I stick in my key and open the box. Holy crap! They is bundles of money. Looks like all thousand dollar bills all wrapped up in bundles with elastic bands. I grab five bundles and walk out. The bank guy smiles. The others is waiting outside.
"Well, is there lots of money?" Dotty says.
"No money," I says. "But I found some stuff that I ain't hardly never seed before."
I got me a smile big as a bum crack. Then I pass out the bundles, one to Clem, one to Molly, one to Bones and Dotty and one to Miller.
They is silence while they stare at the loot.
"Jessuz!" Clem says. "We're rich!"
"Is there more?" Dotty says.
"Not much," I says. "Just mebbe a few more hundred bundles."
"Jeesuz!" Clem says again.
Miller is smilin.
Next week we bought us a house, a big house with a swimmin pool and three storeys tall and flowers everywhere ... and we all move in. All 'cept Miller who stays at the Grove, but visits every day. We discover that Molly is one helluva cook. We also discover that Bones and Dotty make lots of noise in bed at night. We also discover that Clem is good with flowers. Miller looks after paying all the bills so's the rest of us can enjoy life high on the hog.
One thing I like most is the sixty inch TV. I used to spend an hour each day lookin at the races through the window at the Video Shop, when I was workin the street. Now I spend three hours watchin the horse races on my own TV, sippin a glass of wine, my feet on the coffee table. I know them horses, all of em. I know em good, so I started bettin. A few thousand here, a few thousand there. I don't win much but it's much fun and that box has lots of money.
Then, one day, I go to the bank and find just one bundle of money in the box. I brings it home and complains to Clem. He says I gambled it away on the horses. I can hardly believe that, but Dotty agrees and so does Bones and Molly. When Miller shows up fer dinner I tells him and he says he expected that to happen one day. Then he says we gotta sell the house.
"But where will we live?" Molly says.
They is silence, then Miller says we can move back to Miller's Grove –and that's what we did, 'cept the trailers is all fixed up now and we got us a TV in a rec room that Miller built fer us and Molly does all the cookin and Clem started a garden with nice flowers.
Miller says the money from the sale of the big house means we don't gotta work the streets no more–but we all do anyway. It's like old times, but better.
Chapter One
Do you know the shed at the edge of town, the one on Danforth Drive just past Harvester Road? It looks unfinished and quite small. It's both of those things–and it's my home. There's another similar shack further down, but mine is the first one. I find it difficult to disguise my contempt for my lifestyle, so I hide it. In fact, inside that shack is my town wear: a nice dark suit, an exquisite white shirt and tie, dark glasses ... and colossal arrogance. During weekdays I work at the old lumber mill on Harvester Road, in my grey pullover and dungarees. Do people still call them dungarees?
Ah, but on Saturday nights I climb into my town wear and head into the city, to Shaw's Bar and Dance. There, I'm not the sloppy jerk who hauls lumber, pushes logs into the grinder and stacks boards. I'm Dapper Dan Mahoney, elegance in motion, raconteur, world traveler and lover extraordinaire. The girls at Shaw's know me well. I buy the beer, tell stories of my travels and speak alluring words in Spanish, French and Italian.
Now you may think that I'm a total fake, a scoundrel and a liar. Of course, you'd be quite right, but no harm is done, don't you agree? I enjoy my Saturday nights and the girl's enjoy my delectable company. And the foreign languages that I speak? I've memorized dozens of tasty phrases that I whisper at opportune moments in the conversation. Daisuki desu. That's Japanese. A Japanese guy at work told me that. It impresses the hell out of the gals at Shaw's. That's when I go into the details of my adventures in Kyoto, Sendai and Yokohama and describe the elaborate sushi they make in Sushi Sho Masa in Tokyo. Don't you love Japanese words, how they sound?
Anyway, the Saturday before last, I met this gal at Shaw's. I had never seen her there before. It was clear that she was new. She looked rather confused, so I decided I'd help her out. Besides, she was drop-dead gorgeous.
"Well, sweet thing," I whispered, slipping into the seat beside her at the bar. "Is the bar menu confusing?"
She looked at me, smiled politely, and ignored my question.
"The Algonquin is whiskey, vermouth and pineapple juice," I said, very softly, without actually looking at her. That was one of my special deceptions. For a new girl, a stranger can be frightening. But if I speak and look away, as though I'm talking to the wall, they relax.
"Barbotage? That's cognac, Grand Marnier and Brut champagne. The Boilermaker is just beer and whiskey."
I turned to look at this beautiful woman. She was paying attention and that was a good sign.
"Have you tried them all?" she asked.
"Most of the drinks here, at Shaw's, but those I haven't tasted here I've tasted elsewhere. For example, Lava Flow in Honolulu, Jaigermeister in Munich and Umqombothi in Johannesburg.
"Oh my
," she giggled, "You have been around."
I smiled sweetly and slid off the seat. "I'm sitting across the room, at my reserved table. If you have any questions about the drinks, please ask."
I walked slowly to my table and noted, in the mirror, that she watched me go. I waited for about five minutes. It hardly ever takes longer than five minutes.
"May I join you?" she said, slithering onto a chair at my table.
"Be my guest," I said with a smile. "How about Sex at my House?"
"I beg your pardon?" she said.
"It's Amaretto Di Saronno, raspberry liqueur and pineapple juice. It's quite nice, actually. The drink, I mean."
"Yes, that would be nice," she said. "The drink, I mean."
I waved at Bill Shaw and, knowing exactly what I wanted, brought two drinks to my table.
It was a delightful evening. This gal, name Angela, was smart as well as beautiful. She had moved into town from Montreal, she had travelled widely, spent time in Europe, drove a Ferrari and lived in a penthouse condo by the lake. And she said she'd be coming to Shaw's often ... provided I was there. I said I was always there Saturday evening. This was going to be a great relationship, I could tell.
That was two weeks ago. Last Saturday she was already at my table when I arrived and she was sipping Sex at my House. A very good sign. As I sat she said, "Konnichi wa." Damn! Was she speaking Japanese? I gave her a big grin. Then she said, with a huge smile: "Miryoku ga aru." I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, so I tried to change the subject.
"Are you enjoying Sex at my House? The drink, I mean." I grinned, a big grin.
"Wakarimasen," she said, her grin larger than mine.
This was getting embarrassing, so I got up to leave.
"Gotta meet a friend," I said, rushing off.
I thought about just going back to the bar, but she got up as though she was going to follow me ... so I left Shaw's.
Chapter Two
When the next Saturday arrived, I was reluctant to go to Shaw's. That gal could ruin everything, so I decided I'd keep my eye on her without her knowing. There's another bar across from Shaw's and I sat at a window seat so I could see the comings and goings at Shaw's. I saw her enter and, shortly after, she left. I expected to see her arrive and depart in her Ferrari, but she was walking. I finished my beer and followed her. She went down Maple Avenue toward Aldershot then she actually turned onto Harvester Road. When she came to the lumber mill, she paused and gawked at the buildings, then continued to the end of Harvester and turned onto Danforth. What was she doing? Any minute now she'd walk past my shack!
My abode looked so sad. The grass was just two feet of weeds and it desperately needed a paint job. Angela stopped right in front, then walked to the door and knocked. Damn! What was she doing? There was no chair on the front porch, if you could call it that, so she sat on one of the concrete blocks that held up the shed. It looked like she was prepared to spend the rest of the evening there! What to do?
I straightened my tie and began to amble down Danforth Drive like I was just out for a walk.
As I walked by she said, "Hey Dan! Fancy meeting you here."
I pretended to be surprised. "Why Angela, do you often come this way for a stroll?"
"Only when I'm looking for your house," she said with a gigantic grin.
Okay, so I was found out. I sat beside her and she put her head on my shoulder and held my hand.
I must have looked a sight because she leaned over and whispered, "Don't be angry or upset."
"Okay, how did you know?" I asked. "Did you suspect something the first time you saw me, at Shaw's bar? Was it something I said? How did you...?"
"Oh Dan," she said, leaning heavily against my shoulder. "I've known for weeks. I followed you a couple of weeks ago, curious to know where you went each Saturday night. We're a couple of fakes, you and I. You know that other shack, just a half mile down Danforth Drive? That's mine."
I tried to get up, but she pulled me back onto the concrete block and gave me a big kiss on the cheek.
Two weeks later we were married. It turns out that Angela is a secretary at the lumber mill and has kept an eye on me for months. It also turns out that her shack is twice the size of mine, so I moved there. Now, every Saturday evening, we sit on her spacious porch and sip something simple, like beer. My life is so much better and she admits that hers has improved as well. In fact, she said that she had intended to change our lives some time ago. She said that her name, Angela, means Messenger of God and she had always intended that to be her motivation.
Chapter One
Tornados are fickle things. They move East then suddenly change to West. They move at ten miles an hour then suddenly change to twenty. And who can predict their path? North American Indians thought that human intervention was possible. They prayed for a redirection and an approaching tornado would change direction. That was their thought. Foolish, perhaps, but many ancient cultures believed that tornados actually are affected by human thoughts and emotions. Alas, prediction is a science inaccessible to all.
The idiots at North American weather stations certainly cannot predict tornado paths. The jerks at the Storm Prediction Centers certainly cannot. What they do is guess. Sure, they look at historical patterns and try sexy matching techniques, but that won't work. Things change. On the other hand, there are techniques that use current weather data as well as sophisticated predictive analytics ... and they are embedded in my software, software that I wrote, software that currently resides behind a wall of security software that I wrote years ago. Nobody will be able to access the computer code.
When I tried to convince the so-called experts that Bayesian Statistical Analysis, together with extensive wind pattern data, temperature and pressure gradient details, that this would be able to track tornados, they laughed. Now that I have completed the mathematical and programming components, I'm left with the opportunity to test the result on actual tornados. It may seem strange to pray for a tornado, but that's what I've been doing for over week: praying for a tornado to come my way. Although some of my colleagues know that I continued to work on my predictive software, no one knows that I can now actually redirect tornados. It requires an antenna of my own design, one that will emit strong electromagnetic pulses at a precise frequency determined by the tornado characteristics.
It was early in the Fall when the I recognized a predictable tornado, named Adam, the first of the year, off the West coast of Africa, one that would arrive at the East Coast of North America within three weeks. The weather data confirmed that it would arrive in the vicinity of my home shortly thereafter. My house is in the country, on the East coast, and my antenna array is very large and on a hill–as it needs to be. Tornados can be quite narrow, often less than a hundred yards across. They can destroy one house in a neighbourhood and leave its neighbours intact. The tornado which will arrive in three weeks was one of those. It would be a trivial matter to change its direction.
While I was aligning the antennas and tweaking the frequency emissions, I seriously thought of redirecting the tornado to hit the local Storm Prediction Center where I had worked for four years. It would have given me great pleasure to announce the redirection to Sam Jeffreys, the head of research. He was the biggest idiot there. However, it would be sufficient to simply send him email indicating my intention to change the course of Adam so it veered sharply East, out into the Atlantic. I would do this just hours before the tornado hit the city, when everybody was scared, when the radio advised people to leave town. That would be glorious. Imagine the response. People would shout my name, my picture would be on the front page and Sam Jeffrey would say words of praise for my work on tornado prediction and redirection.
Adam was coming quickly now, about ten miles from my house on Cranberry Hill and less than six miles from the city. The radio was sounding the alarm and I could see the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Highway 17. The announcer said that everyone on the Indian reservation was attempti
ng to divert the tornado. That was amusing. I couldn't help laughing.
Chapter Two
The TV anchor turned to Dr. Sam Jeffreys, head of research at the Tornado Prediction Center.
"Dr. Jeffreys, I understand that the tornado, the one called Adam, changed direction rather rapidly. How do you explain that?"
"Well, there is some evidence to suggest that it was not a natural phenomenon. I know that many think the Indian chants may have caused the redirection, but that is not the case. In fact, there were very strong electromagnetic transmissions as Adam approached the city. The electrically charged ions within the tornado responded by moving the tornado chamber, the vortex as it were, to move it rather dramatically toward a house on Cranberry Hill. I'm afraid that house has been completely demolished, yet no other homes were damaged."
"Dr. Jeffrey, was that house occupied?"
"Not that I'm aware of"
I would have flown directly to Berlin, but I was told that the drive from Frankfurt was quite pleasant, so I rented a car and began the trip. I had a late start and stopped in the ancient town of Treysa, not far from Frankfurt. That's where the Brothers Grimm wrote Little Red Riding Hood and the town was just like a fairy tale, right out of the 12th century, and the famous traditional costume known as the Schwalm-region Little Red Riding Hood costume reminds one of the fairy tale. I stayed at a 600 year old hotel owned by a fellow who, I understand, spoke excellent English. The floors were uneven and the walls slightly warped, but I was tired and if the bed was comfortable I would get a good sleep for the drive to Berlin next morning.
The owner introduced himself as Gustav Bohner and said that business was very slow and he would give me the best room in the hotel. It turned out to be a smallish room with a bed, table, sink, toilet and chair and a window. Not elegant, but comfortable. Being tired, I undressed then collapsed, naked, on the bed.
