“Come on in, Jack.” Vern immediately offered his hand; they shook. Jack towered almost a full foot over the realtor.
“Have a seat. If I’d known you were so tall, I would’ve had my step ladder handy.” He gave Jack his famous million-dollar smile. “My gosh, Jack, what do you go? Six, six?”
“No, only six four.”
“Only six four? Maybe you look so tall because I’m so short. So? How can I be of service?”
“I want you to sell my farm.”
“Outstanding. I may already have a buyer. All of us realtors get a fact sheet on who’s looking for what. How many acres is the farm?” Vern searched his cluttered desktop for the memo sheet.
“Two hundred and twenty-five.”
He located the data sheet, and hummed while scanning it. “Ah ha. Here we are. The prospective buyer is US Oil…and they want…Oh, rats, Jack. They want a minimum of five hundred acres, and easy interstate access is necessary for their fleet of tanker trucks. However, get this…they will not pay more than two hundred an acre. Prime farm land is almost twice that.”
“Well, I definitely have the highway, Route Thirty-Two runs right through the farm. That really pissed off the old man when the State took some of his land and the new highway divided his farm in two.”
“Eminent domain empowers the government to be thieves. However, that four-lane highway sure is nice. This sheet also says US Oil wants to purchase that much land to grow a special hybrid corn. Moreover, they’re going to build a giant processing plant there also, to convert corn into Ethanol. Well…anyways, I can still list your two hundred and twenty-five acres, and I would recommend listing it at the current market price of four hundred an acre.”
Jack listened intently as Vern explained.
“You can always lower the asking price later on; or you can counter offer any low offers we get. That works out to…” Vern’s fingers flew across his calculator, “…ninety-thousand dollars, minus my 3 percent commission and any closing costs, of course.”
When Jack heard ninety grand, his eyes got as wide as pie plates. “What? Ninety… Thousand?”
“I’m sorry, Jack. Yes, that’s all.”
“What do you mean you’re sorry? Christ! I had no idea the Old Man’s farm was worth that kind of money.”
Vern noticed Jack was obviously shitting his pants. “Oh! Well, don’t get your hopes too high. That’s only the asking price, and farms are tough to sell right now. I’ve had a two hundred acre farm on the market for nine months now, with no offers. I’ll stop by your farm tomorrow and get the specs on the house, the barn and a general description of the land. Then we’ll advertise her.”
They shook again. On a done deal.
Fourteen hundred dollars was the grand total Thomas had in the bank, which Jack inherited. That should be enough to make ends meet till spring, or until the place is sold. Jack figured, but when the past due notice was in the mailbox for the property taxes two weeks later, he knew he had to do something to survive, and keep the farm. The amount due was five hundred dollars on the Thomas and Margaret Trotter Farm. Moreover, four hundred dollars on some TMT Property.
“What the hell is this TMT Property?” Jack wondered aloud when he looked at the notice. “This must be a mistake. I’ll mail it back to them idiots.”
He also figured now would be a good time to sell whatever he could. Thomas had a few rifles and shotguns. I can sell them all except for one thirty ought six. Jack planned on eating plenty of venison the next couple of months.
Thinking maybe his father had some cash or old coins stashed somewhere, he began a frantic search, starting with the old man’s armoire. On the top shelf, hidden behind his T-shirts, Jack found a metal strong box. He shook it, and heard some coins rattle. Locked, Jack found the key on Thomas’s key ring, and opened the box at the kitchen table. A grand total of forty-four dollars, in one-dollar coins dated around the Civil War era, was all the cash the box yielded. Jack searched through the pile of envelopes hoping for paper money. He found birth certificates, the deed to the farm, and an envelope from a Des Moines law firm addressed to TMT Properties, Inc. No money.
What the hell is this? The letter inside was dated September 15, 1942. The letter was short and to the point.
Dear Margaret and Thomas Trotter,
Your application has been approved by the state of Iowa for the Articles of Incorporation. The title you selected, TMT Properties, has also been approved for your corporate name. Enclosed is your certificate.
Digging deeper into the stack of letters, Jack found, and read, two more deeds; one was the original deed to Eugene Trotter’s farm. The second deed was the same deed, but with TMT being the owner, dated March 15, 1943. Jack surmised that TMT was Thomas, Margaret, Trotter, and his parents bought Eugene's farm, under that corporate name, from Polk County for the sum of four thousand dollars.
Thinking back, Jack remembered when he was seven or eight, a plywood sign posted along the road near his grandfather’s farm read:
This property is owned by TMT Properties, Inc.
No trespassing or hunting allowed
All violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law
Every hunting season, fancy brand new pickups arrived with hunters sporting brand new Woolrich clothing, and toting high-powered rifles. Rumor had it this big corporation from Des Moines bought Eugene Trotter’s Farm at the Polk County tax sale and turned the place into a private hunting camp. The sign had since rotted away.
Jack knew very well of the bitter hatred shared among Eugene’s three boys. However, what he did not know was his father was the most sly and cunning bastard of the three, when it came to acquiring property—and seeking revenge!
* * * *
That night when Eugene’s sons drank excessively and tried one final time to divide their dead father's farm, the drunks could not sanely agree on any terms. Finally, Raymond arrogantly suggested, “Well then, why don’t we just burn the fucking place down to the fucking ground… and nobody fucking gets it?”
“That’s the best God damned idea you had tonight,” a drunken Thad agreed, and took another big swallow of Shine from the jug.
“Let’s draw straws to see who gets the honor of throwing the fucking match,” Thomas suggested, slurring his words. He was not a religious person, but he prayed he picked the short straw; his brain was already calculating an idea. Thomas grabbed a box of wooden kitchen matches and tossed them on the table. Ray picked three out, snapped the end off one, and positioned them in his fist so just the sulfur heads were sticking out to the exact same length. Then he put his fist to Thad. Thad drew. His match was not snapped, he was not granted the high honor of being tonight’s arsonist. That distinction was between Raymond and Thomas now. Ray offered the two remaining matches to Thomas. He drew. A snapped match. Halleluiah! Thank you, Lady Luck. Thomas was bestowed the gallant privilege, the majestic honor, the distinguished royal duty of—“Burning the fucking place down to the fucking ground!”
Stashing the box of matches in his shirt pocket, he told his brothers, “And to make you assholes real happy, I’ll even burn the fucking pond!” One more swig from the jug and he was out the door. He raced to his father’s farm, a place where he had put in a lot of his time “working on the house.” The very first thing he did was open the old man’s underwear drawer and remove the stack of important papers. He thumbed through them, making sure the deed was still there. It was.
After safely stashing the papers in his glove box, he found the gas can in the barn and splashed the highly flammable liquid on the walls, the floor, and the hayloft. Exiting the barn, he grabbed the can of kerosene also. On the way to the house, he doused the outhouse. Soaking the chicken coop startled the birds; they cackled and scattered. He emptied the gas can on the tractor. Thomas went in the house; dumped kerosene upstairs, then down the steps to the first floor, until that can also ran dry, just before he reached his father’s bed at the window. Standing outside, he struck a
match, and tossed it in the house. The kerosene lit, and the fire followed the trail up the stairs, down the hall and into every room. Even up the walls.
On his way back to the barn, Thomas lit the tractor, outhouse, and chicken coop. By now, flames were already shooting out the farmhouse windows. When he lit the barn, the gas ignited much faster than the kerosene, nearly burning the drunken idiot when the giant ball of flames belched from double barn doors.
Eugene kept a drum of diesel fuel close to the pond for running the sump pump. Thomas drove down to the pond, grabbed his pick from the bed of the truck, ran to the drum and poked a few holes in the sides of the fifty-five gallon drum. He then knocked it over, and rolled it into the pond as the house and the barn blazed brilliantly. Just as Thomas pulled the box of matches from his pocket, the half-full five hundred gallon gas tank blew. He was only two hundred feet away from the tank that Eugene kept out back of his barn. The extremely loud explosion and shock wave knocked Thomas to his ass, just about blowing out his eardrums. He heard ringing like never before. The matchbox fell from his hands into the pond, wetting the last three matches. They lit, but fizzled out; he tossed them in the pond, anyhow. By now, Thomas was scared shitless. His ears were ringing like a son of a bitch. Moreover, the night sky was turning to day from the enormous flames raging in all the buildings. Although he did not fulfill his promise of setting the pond ablaze, he did put forth a valiant effort. Pissed off, he tossed the pick and empty matchbox in the truck bed, and got his scared ass home.
When Fire Marshall Maquire interrogated him the next day, Thomas almost had to read the man’s lips due to the intense ringing in his ears.
The following year, Raymond Trotter, Thad Trotter, and Mr. Rothberg, an expensive attorney from Des Moines, were among the small handful of people attending the Polk County tax sale when Eugene Trotter’s burnt property came on the auction block for unpaid taxes. The judge started the proceeding by asking, “Do I have an opening bid of one thousand dollars for Eugene Trotter’s parcel of three hundred acres?”
“I bid one thousand dollars,” announced Raymond, proudly.
“I bid one thousand, one hundred,” Thad spoke up, across the room from his brother. He scowled at his Raymond.
“Two thousand, Your Honor,” the sharply dressed lawyer announced confidently to the judge. The two brothers glanced hatefully at the lawyer.
“Two thousand, one hundred,” Thad bid.
“Three thousand, Your Honor,” Rothberg stated, rolling his eyes and giving Raymond a disgusting frown.
“Three thousand, and, uh, one hundred,” Raymond Trotter nervously exclaimed.
“Three thousand, two…” Thad Trotter began to shoot back.
“Four…thousand…dollars! Your Honor,” Rothberg announced loudly, before Raymond could finish his own bid. The attorney was obviously tired of the other two’s bullshit tactics. He acted irritated and impatient, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. The other bidders fell silent.
The judge looked around the courtroom, and then said, “High bid is four thousand. Do we have any more bids?” No response. The lawyer folded his arms and smugly smiled at the Trotter brothers.
“Four thousand. Going once…Going twice…Sold! And in what name, sir, shall the new deed be put in?” Judge O’Keeki asked Rothberg.
“That would be TMT Properties Incorporated. Thank you, Your Honor.”
Thad and Ray were pissed that some God damned high and mighty Corporation just bought their father’s farm. Nevertheless, they also wondered why Thomas was not present at the sale. At least that son of a bitch didn’t get Dad’s place either. They both agreed, in thought only.
Part of the arrangement for Rothberg representing Thomas that day was permitting the lawyer and his rich friends hunting privileges on the property for the next couple of years or so. Thomas hired a sign maker in Breezewood to construct and erect the “no trespassing” signs. He had to refinance his own farm to do all this, much to Maggie’s dismay of course, but his plan worked brilliantly. Everybody in Elderton thought a big business from Des Moines did buy the farm that ran adjacent to Thomas Trotter’s farm. “Just for a place to hunt. Imagine that!”
* * * *
Jack excitedly called his new friend Vern. “The total acreage on my listing should be five hundred and twenty-five acres. I just found out I own two farms. Can you make the change on the listing?”
“I can do better than that, Master Trotter. I will personally call US Oil, and inform them I have a farm that not only has the interstate to the front door, but there’s an extra twenty-five acres. This is exactly what they want, if not more. That is, of course, if you want to let it go for two hundred an acre. You’ll be looking at…” Jack heard the calculator clicking. “One hundred and five thousand dollars before costs. You should clear roughly one hundred G’s.”
“Vern!” Jack said with the excitement of a six-year-old boy that just got a pony for Christmas, “Make the fucking call! Oops, pardon my French. Make the call.”
“Will do, my tall friend. I’ll let you know something as soon as I know something.”
Roughly, two months elapsed until the attorneys transferred ownership and the check cleared his bank.
The year was 1968. The month, February. The day, the Second. Known better nationally as Groundhog Day.
In the frigid morning air, Jack had to warm his Mercury and scrape the ice from its windshield before starting his journey into the unknown future. A flood of mixed emotions and memories cascaded over Jack as he glanced in the rear view mirror, watching the farmhouse fade from view, for what he knew would be the very last time of his life.
* * * *
Meanwhile, that same frosty morning in a tiny town in Pennsylvania, the famous, fat, furry, and much beloved groundhog affectionately nicknamed “Punxsutawney Phil”; “the prognosticator of prognosticators,” was once again being rudely awakened by tuxedo-clad members of The Inner Circle, only then to be wrestled from his burrow at Gobbler’s Knob.
Shortly later, after his handler perched the giant rodent atop a stump under numerous one million-candlepower spotlights and hundreds of camera’s lights, the famous weather forecasting gopher predicted six more weeks of winter after seeing his shadow cast upon a blanket of freshly fallen, pristine white snow. Phil’s forecast immediately hit the media.
Ironically, eight hundred miles to the west, in a small town in Iowa, a grinning farm boy sat behind the wheel of his 1950 Mercury, with one hundred grand securely stowed away in a duffle bag in the trunk. Jack grinned even wider once his AM radio announced the groundhog’s prediction as the old Detroit lead sled, cruising at seventy-five miles an hour, flew past a smiling ear of corn wearing a straw hat atop corn silk hair, on State Route Thirty-Two West out of Elderton.
Twenty-two year old Jack Trotter, the tall, good-looking and muscular ex-marine had forecasted his own prediction; which was, the weather in Southern California would be in the mid-eighties upon his arrival.
With a lifetime of sunshine!
Part II
Chapter Ten
“Who loves ya, Baby?”
Detective Theo Kojak
“Jack…Jack…Trotter!” Captain Frank Palmer finally hollered at Trotter. The deep, raspy voice of the large black man brought his daydream of beagle chasing in the Iowa cornfields to an abrupt end. Startled back into the present day of 1990, Trotter realized he was sitting behind his desk in Santa Monica, California. His gaze went from the face of the eight-year old farm boy in the photo, to his boss’s face towering over him. The scent of Palmer’s Aqua Velva aftershave and freshly starched shirt replaced the smell of his mother’s apple butter cooking on the wood stove.
“Sorry, Frank. May thirteenth is my mother’s death anniversary. For a moment there, I was eight years old again,” Trotter apologized. “That woman made the best damned apple butter I ever tasted.”
Palmer nodded that he understood and smiled a weak smile. “I guess I’m lucky to still have my mother. My fa
ther’s been dead now for twelve years, Sickle cell anemia,” the Captain of the Santa Monica Detectives said. He had been Trotter’s boss now for the past eight years. Palmer and Trotter had an excellent relationship. He was as tall as Trotter, but a little heavier, with distinguished gray sideburns. The Captain was an honest cop; everything was always aboveboard, and by the book. For the most part, so was Trotter.
“Have you made any progress on Leon Sullivan?” Palmer’s voice resonated, getting right back to business.
“Yes sir. That’s why I stopped in this morning. I need a couple of plates ran.”
Working undercover would keep him out of touch with his supervisor, sometimes for a week or longer. Trotter never gave the Captain any reason to think he was taking advantage of his liberties. However, Palmer liked to know the whereabouts and welfare of his men in the field. Busts that had turned sour sent too many undercover narcotics agents to an early grave. Palmer knew Trotter could definitely handle himself, and he was smart. Nevertheless, these drug dealers were cold hearted, ruthless bastards who would not think twice about squeezing a trigger to keep their own asses out of jail. So far, Trotter was instrumental in taking many drugs, and dealers, off the streets, and he was still alive. The Captain wanted to keep things in that perspective.
“What about that Newman character? Are you going to bring him in?”
“I think he went straight. I haven’t seen any activity around his place lately. He’s just a user, not a pusher. I’ll bring him in if we need his testimony.”
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