by Dan Arnold
Angels & Imperfection
Dan Arnold
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
A Look at Special Agent (Angels & Imperfection 2)
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About the Author
Angels & Imperfection is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 (as revised) Dan Arnold
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by CKN Christian Publishing, an imprint of Wolfpack Publishing, Las Vegas.
CKN Christian Publishing
An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing
6032 Wheat Penny Avenue
Las Vegas, NV 89122
christiankindlenews.com
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64734-872-4
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64734-873-1
This book is dedicated to Lenora Clyde. She was my faithful friend, fan, and the best mother-in-law in the world. I miss you so. And to Jake Arnold, Bart Arnold, Kelsey and Brett Collar, Rachel Blevins and Loudin Blevins, all three of the grandchildren - so far, Ellenor and Mike Welch, Kathleen and Dave Golden, Bill Clyde (who has no use for books and never read a page), and Al and Andrea Kennemer, who have loved and encouraged me in the process.
And Lora,
My seldom complaining wife and traveling companion as I explore this literary road in an unreliable vehicle without a compass or GPS. She pretends not to notice me trying to draw the map, only after I’ve made all the wrong turns.
Foreword
“All we like sheep have gone astray.”
Sheep are among the most naturally helpless inhabitants of this planet. Sheep are poorly equipped for either self-defense or rapid flight. When they are attacked, startled or frightened they tend to scatter.
Predators love helpless and harmless prey.
The most dangerous predators seek the lost sheep, not to harm them physically, but to herd them into darkness. Once in the darkness, the sheep are blind. Because lost sheep are blind, they will follow the whispered and gentle direction of any voice they feel comfortable with. The wolves entice them with pleasant and reasonable voices.
A smart predator gives the sheep just enough light, to follow the only path they can see, but not enough light to see the end of that path, or to see the traps and pitfalls along the way.
Other wolves will suggest the sheep are evolving into more enlightened beings; becoming more intelligent, perfect and godlike. Some will persuade the sheep there is no God, telling them that life is random and has no meaning whatsoever.
Since the dawn of time, the wolves have been determined to slaughter as many sheep as possible.
The Shepherds are appointed to stand between the sheep and the wolves.
One
When I finally stumbled home at midnight, my next-door neighbor, Molly McGovern’s lights were on. After the day I had just lived through, I was in no mood to put up with a lot of loud music, raucous laughter or any other form of inconsiderate behavior.
Like all people everywhere, Molly, was a flawed human being. That was no reason to abuse her. She was a drunk, sure, but that didn’t mean her boyfriend had a license to use her as a punching bag.
As I climbed into bed I was only vaguely aware of my neighbors. I was awakened from a sound sleep by the noise of the beating. Through the wall of my apartment, I could hear the violence escalating.
I pulled on some pants and a T-shirt, and went out on the landing, barefooted.
I hesitated a moment before knocking.
Maybe I should just call the police again. They would show up in ten or twenty minutes. They might arrest Alphonsio Patterson again, but Molly probably wouldn’t press charges, and he’d just go free… again. We’d all play the same scenario out again and again, just like we’d been doing for the last seven and a half months. Eventually, he would either kill her, leave her for another punching bag, or maybe Molly would kill him in his sleep. The restraining order wasn’t doing anybody any good.
I pounded on the door.
A moment later, Alphonsio jerked it open. From the surprised look on his face I could tell he had been expecting the cops. When he recognized me, he went from startled to belligerent.
“What the F*** you want?”
“I was just wondering if I could borrow a cup of sugar.”
“What? Hey, get the F*** outta here,” he said, as I brushed past him into the living room.
“Can Molly come out and play?” I asked.
“You one crazy mothaf*****! I’m gonna **** you up.”
I was aware Alphonsio had limited communication skills. Evidently this was due to a language barrier, based on his inability to express himself in words he had learned in school.
I ignored him and went into the bedroom. The door was open.
Molly was slumped in the corner, behind the bed. She was wearing green plaid pajama bottoms and a white tank top. The white tank top was slowly turning crimson, from the blood flowing out of Molly’s broken nose and split lips. I went to her and found her semi-conscious and breathing. The once beautiful blonde woman was drunk and badly beaten.
“Get the f*** away from my girlfriend, mothaf*****!”
I stood up. “No, Al, my name is Tucker. I’m John Wesley Tucker.”
Alphonsio was about my size, maybe a little taller. He was very fit, I could tell because he had no shirt on. He had several tattoos. Judging by the subject matter, poor quality of most of the artwork and my familiarity with his history, some of them were undoubtedly prison tats. He was wearing oversized blue jean cargo pants that were sagging down, exposing his boxer shorts. He had on a ball cap, sideways - one of those with a flat brim. I knew he was in his late twenties. Molly was thirty-two. They were both a bit younger than me, but then again, almost everyone is a bit younger than me.
I walked back into Molly’s living room, in the apartment she paid the rent on.
“Alphonsio, I guess I’m going to have to call the police and an ambulance… again. Let me use your cell phone.”
“What you say? Hell no. Get the F*** outta here.”
I hit him, very hard and very fast. I hit him with the open heel of my right hand. I don’t like to use my knuckles. The strike shattered his nose. I kicked him in the crotch, and followed it up with a left elbow strike, knocking him to the floor. He started to collec
t himself immediately, so I kicked him again. His head bounced off the corner of the breakfast bar and laid him out, stone cold. He looked to still be alive, and since he was lying face down, I knew he wouldn’t drown in his own blood, from the broken nose.
I went over to a lamp that was lying on the floor, where it had been knocked over in his previous assault on Molly, and stripped the cord off. I used the cord to tie his hands behind his back.
Now I had a little time to think about what I should do next.
Molly needed medical attention. I would call for an ambulance, shortly.
First, I had to determine what to do with old Al.
The only thing I knew for sure was I didn’t want him to ever touch Molly again.
It was nearly two in the morning, and nobody was moving outside. My apartment was second to the last, on the second story of the building. Molly’s apartment was the last one, on the end, at the top of a staircase. I wanted to throw Alphonsio over the railing, and see if he survived the landing in the parking lot.
Maybe he would bounce.
I reminded myself he was some mother’s little boy, her pride and joy. He was probably somebody’s father. Maybe there was more than one child who could call him daddy. Above any other consideration, he was made in the image of God.
It only took me a couple of minutes of searching to find his dope stash. I knew he would have hidden it pretty quickly, when he thought the cops were at the door. I put it in his back pants pocket, sort of hanging out, where it could be seen, like his underwear. Then, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911.
I had just given the address to the dispatcher, when Alphonsio woke up, so I hung up the phone. He and I needed to chat before the police and the ambulance arrived on the scene.
I ducked into the kitchen and procured Molly’s biggest cast iron frying pan.
Alphonsio had managed to sit up with his back against the breakfast bar, his legs bent in front of him.
He started to strain against the lamp cord, and tried to get up.
“Stop it,” I said, brandishing the frying pan.
He quit squirming and glared at me. He looked kind of foolish, with the lower half of his face all bloody, like Molly’s. I picked his cap off the floor, and put it back on his head, sideways, the way he liked to wear it.
“Alphonsio, I want you to listen to me for a second. The police are on the way here. I want you to promise me you will never come back to this apartment, and you will never see Molly again. OK?”
“F*** you,” He responded.
I hit him in the right knee with the frying pan. I hit him about as hard as I could. He nearly fainted, and crumpled over. I untied the lamp cord from around his wrists, and threw it back over in the corner, with the broken lamp. He was writhing on the floor, whimpering.
“Let’s try this again, Alphonsio. I want you to promise me neither Molly, nor I, will ever see you again. OK?”
“You broke my knee, you motha…”
I broke his other knee.
He screamed this time, and then resumed writhing and whimpering in pain. I waited until he seemed to regain his wits.
“Well then, Al, since you appear to be unable to express yourself utilizing a normal vocabulary, let me put it to you another way. If I ever see you again, anytime, anywhere, I’ll end you and send you to your final judgment. Nod your head if you understand.”
He nodded vigorously, his whimpers punctuating the motion.
I carried the frying pan into the bedroom, where I handed it to Molly. She needed a little help getting a good grip on it. She was pretty much unaware she was holding it.
On my way out of the apartment, I checked on Alphonsio. He was still whimpering. He appeared somewhat paled and disheartened by the tribulation he had suffered.
I could hear sirens coming.
I left the apartment door open.
Yeah… I’m flawed, too.
Two
Spring time in East Texas, is often spectacular. This was one of those years, with the last of the redbuds just beginning to fade as the dogwoods came into full bloom. The air was fragrant, with azaleas and wisteria bursting with brightly colored blossoms. I decided to eat lunch outside.
The phone rang.
“Tucker Investigation, John speaking,”
“Mr. Tucker, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Are you John Wesley Tucker, the detective?”
“I am. May I ask who I’m speaking to?”
“I’m Walter Farley, Mr. Simpson’s personal assistant. Please hold.”
That was odd.
“Tucker, are you there?” a demanding voice boomed.
“Yes, sir, how may I help you?”
“I’m Ted Simpson, Simpson Oil and Gas, maybe you’ve heard of us.”
“Yes, sir, I believe your offices are downtown, on the square. How may I help you, Mr. Simpson?”
“Can you come down here? I need to talk to you, privately. I’ll buy you lunch.”
“Let me check with my secretary to see if I have any conflicts. Please hold.”
I punched the “hold” button.
Tucker Investigations didn’t have a secretary, yet, and I didn’t have another appointment until three o’clock that afternoon. I just thought it would be fun to pretend. After all, turnabout is fair play.
I took him off hold.
“Mr. Simpson. It appears I can meet you for lunch. Where would you like to meet?”
“Come on down here, to the Simpson building. We’ll talk first and then we’ll eat.”
He hung up.
The Simpson building was twelve stories of dark tinted glass, on the west side of the square, in downtown Tyler. Usually, it would only take me about ten minutes to get there. At lunch time, that driving time could nearly double. The lunch hour always causes a great migration. The downtown square is a popular destination for the hungry herd. There are some very good watering holes and grazing establishments on the square.
Because every parking space, anywhere near the square, was occupied, I had to park in the Episcopal Church parking lot, three blocks away.
I figured Mr. Simpson’s office would be on the top floor of the Simpson Building, and so it was. I stepped off the elevator directly into a richly appointed reception area. A stunningly beautiful receptionist with flaming red hair was seated behind a massive lacquered walnut desk. She smiled as I approached.
“I’m John Wesley Tucker. I’m here to see Mr. Simpson.”
“I believe he’s expecting you, Mr. Tucker. Please have a seat.”
She stood up from behind the desk and headed down the hall. I watched her go.
I barely had a minute to grab a business card off her desk, appreciate the tasteful décor and scan the covers of the glossy oil and gas industry magazines, before she returned.
“He’ll see you in just a moment.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, with a smile.
I sat down in a giant arm chair, upholstered in black and white speckled cowhide, with big brass nail head trim. After a moment, a man appeared at the end of the hall. He looked to be in his early thirties. He stood about five nine and weighed about a buck eighty. He was wearing black pants below an open neck, black polo shirt. He was in no big hurry, and stopped to speak to someone in another office as he approached.
“Mr. Tucker, I’m Walter Farley. I’m Mr. Simpson’s personal assistant. We spoke on the phone.”
We shook hands.
“I’ll show you to his office.”
Ted Simpson’s personal workspace was a corner office with a spectacular view of Tyler. I was reminded immediately of why I love this city so much. The view suggested a forest with the occasional church steeple rising through it. In some places though, the bank buildings were taller than the steeples.
As we came in, Mr. Simpson was coming around his desk to meet us. He was about six feet tall, a little on the heavy side, with salt and pepper hair, neatly trimmed. He wore an expensive dark grey su
it, over a pale blue shirt with a white collar and a tie of deep blue silk. He had on black tasseled loafers. He looked ready to pose for Forbes or Gentleman’s Quarterly.
“Ted, this is John Wesley Tucker. Mr. Tucker this is Ted Simpson.” Walter introduced me, as if he knew me personally. I shook hands with Mr. Simpson and he directed me to have a seat in front of his desk.
Walter asked if I would like coffee, which I declined.
“I know you’re wondering why I wanted to meet with you,” Mr. Simpson started.
Actually, I was wondering if Walter was going to stay for the “private” meeting.
He was.
“I have a situation that requires some delicacy. I understand you can be trusted, and you get the job done.” Mr. Simpson said.
“May I ask who recommended me, to you?”
He looked at Walter.
“Let’s just say that you have a reputation,” Walter said.
“I would prefer to think I have references or referrals.”
“Whatever, let’s get down to brass tacks,” Mr. Simpson said.
The upshot of it all was Ted Simpson was planning to run for state office. He wanted me to do a simple investigation, to see if I could find any dirt, or potentially embarrassing incident from his past, which his enemies could use against him. It didn’t mean there actually was dirt, but it did mean they wanted an independent investigator to take a look. This was a fairly routine and sensible practice. It was certain his opponents would conduct their own investigations.
